Forever After (AFFAIRYTALE Book 2) Page 7

  There’s tension between us.

  Grant: Date.

  Tension gone.

  C.J.: That’s such a great answer. Want to elaborate?

  Grant: No.

  Tension back.

  C.J.: Come on . . . please. If you don’t you’ll be no fun. What’s the worst date you’ve ever had?

  Grant: All of them before you.

  Tension gone.

  C.J.: What’s the one thing you always procrastinate on?

  Grant: You should be asking me what is one thing I don’t procrastinate on. Well, oh boy I procrastinate on getting out of bed, work tasks, pretty much everything.

  C.J.: Yep. That sounds accurate. Which is why I have a serious issue with you booking my ticket in time.

  Grant: Honey, I told you I would. I will, I promise.

  C.J.: Hey, I did watch a TED Talk recently that talked about procrastinators being more creative and having a better outcome on the tasks they do do. I’ll send it to you.

  Grant: Yes do that.

  C.J.: Do you need a drink?

  Grant: No.

  C.J.: Well I do. Will you get me one? It always tastes so much better when you pour it for me.

  He looks up from what he’s reading and gets up to get me a glass of wine.

  C.J.: Honey! I was just kidding. Don’t get up. Sit back down, you don’t have to get anything for me, I can get up!

  Grant: No. No. I’ll get it. You just sit there.

  He walks over and hands me the glass of wine he’s just poured. I thank him. I suspect he’s got ulterior motives, something is not quite right about this interaction.

  C.J.: Did you drug me or something?

  He ignores me. I take a sip then set it down on the bookshelf end table beside me. My favorite end tables in the whole universe.

  C.J.: Do you believe everything happens for a reason, or that we find reasons after they happen?

  Grant: We retrofit our experiences with sensible explanations, right? Those that give us meaning and purpose and have some appearance of influence outside of our existence. But I think you make your way. You make it what you want.

  C.J.: Are we alone in the universe?

  Grant: Statistically no way.

  C.J.: Is there anything you consider unforgivable? Clearly not infidelity. I mean, on my part. Bad joke. Sorry.

  Grant: If someone did something to you or our children there would be no forgiveness. Why would they need my forgiveness? Having an opportunity, I might kill them. But I hope, you know, that reason would prevail.

  Grant holds up a picture from his phone. He loves our little guy. Who at present is sleeping and is not so little but a kindergartener now.

  Grant: Look at our little guy, he’s so handsome. He loves LEGOS.

  C.J.: Describe the birth of your son in three words.

  Grant: Amazing. Humbling. Hmm . . . I’m not sure what a last one would be.

  C.J.: How about horrifying, mortifying, excruciating? Any of those fit?

  Grant: That too. We would see it differently though. Thank you for enduring what you have.

  Chapter 15

  Forever After-Lightning Strikes

  He came into my world like a strike of lightning.

  Although I don’t actually know what it feels like to be struck by lightning, I imagine that his entrance into my world rivals the pain.

  “I know it was water! I don’t feel anything! You didn’t give me anything!” I screamed and sobbed.

  With both hands gripping the bed, white knuckles clenching, I shook the handrails not knowing what else to do to stop the pain. Like that scene from Poltergeist, I was the possessed girl who’d lost all control of her body and mind.

  I pointed my finger and pursed my lips at Grant who was standing beside me, “You’re in on it. I know it.” Then I wielded my stiff phalange to the other side where the nurse was standing and accused her of being in cahoots with him.

  “All that screaming will need to be channeled into pushing soon,” the doctor said.

  “Pushing?! You think I need to push?! I can feel his head!” I bellowed into the air between me and the strange man between my fat, white legs that could have been deflated with push pins.

  “You can hold her legs when it’s time,” the nurse told Grant.

  “Don’t you DARE fucking hold my legs.” For God’s sake those legs should be amputated they are so hideous. Don’t let him get anywhere near my legs. In fact, get him the fuck out of here!

  I glared at her. What a stupid fucking suggestion that was. Didn’t she know Grant would never recover from what he was about to see? How could he ever find me or my vagina appealing EVER AGAIN?

  Everything about pregnancy, everything was unkind. I didn’t say I wasn’t thankful for my kids or grateful they are healthy, don’t email me about how lucky I should feel. I know. I am. I said pregnancy was unkind. Fifty plus extra pounds of weight on my 5’4” frame sucks any way you distribute it. Nausea for nine months, constipation so bad I could have drank all the water in the Hoover Dam and not pushed one out.

  Let me just state here that immediately after we got married, we settled into our newly built home, got a dog, slept in, stayed up late, played the piano naked, sat in the hot tub, and had sex in our bed, in our bedroom, any time we wanted. Life was pretty much blissfully perfect.

  Let me describe me, during that time.

  B- Beautiful

  L- Loving

  I- Intelligent

  S- Social

  S- Sexy

  F- Fun

  U- Usually very happy

  L- Loving life

  Now let me describe me, pregnant.

  P- Pissed off 24/7. About everything.

  R- Raging hormonal anger. About everything.

  E- Everything that could be eaten, would be eaten.

  G- Grant should have run away while he still had the chance.

  N- Not a fucking thing in the world could help me take a shit.

  A- All the food in the house that could be eaten, would be eaten. Did I mention this?

  N- Never are my legs going to recover from this cellulite.

  T- Tits? What tits? These are not erotic toys to be fondled. These are milk factories that get infected, crack wide open and when they deflate after a baby has been weaned, they will have more loose skin than an old man’s ball sack.

  I thought pregnancy was bad . . . giving birth was worse.

  B- Bitch get that doctor who gives the epidural in here now!

  I- If you tell me to calm down again and I’m going to throw my placenta at you.

  R- R U fucking kidding me? Women want to do this naturally?

  T- That is not a vacuum—that is a device of torture and pain that will tear me from end to end!

  H- Heaven? You think when that baby comes out it’s heaven? It’s just the beginning of hell.

  I was that woman you hear screaming from her room on your way to ogle the peaceful newborns through the big glass window down the hall.

  “It’s not supposed to be this way.” I gripped Grant’s arm and begged him for something, anything. “I’m going to die. It feels like I’m going to die. Something is wrong.”

  The nurse listened, the doctor heard me and I could see their faces.

  Something was wrong.

  I once read—although I can’t find it anywhere now—an OB doctor’s anecdotal thoughts on delivery times. He’d said that babies born to vegetarian mothers come out so fast those were the ones he delivered in the elevator or on the street outside the hospital. I didn’t think anything of it when I read it at the time. When Dani was born twelve years earlier, I lay around in my jammies for three days in labor before she was vacuum sucked out with a wonderful epidural, I might add. It made me comfortably numb like a teenager at a Pink Floyd concert.

  So surely, that’s what would happen again. Grant and I would hold hands, cry a little, snuggle our new bundle as we whispered our list of names to the new baby to see if he could help us deci
de. Nope. Not this time. When the anesthesiologist walked into the birthing room, looked at me, looked at Grant, shrugged her shoulders then walked out, I knew I had to do this alone. By alone, I mean without any pharmaceutical pain management that worked. I didn’t want to go it alone. I wanted drugs. Lots of drugs and an epidural. Both, I wanted both.

  When I knew numbness wasn’t going to happen I tried to suck it up and prepare for battle. I truly did. I took a deep breath, lots of them. I was a yoga instructor and I know how to breathe. I know how to meditate on something other than what’s happening in front of you. I imagined my face painted with war paint giving me strength to get through anything. I envisioned my double D sports bra was my battle garb and that all that nakedness below my rib cage was just a distraction for the opposition. I could do this. I would do this and I would not freak out. I could stop screaming, manage the pain, I was strong enough. I understood meditation, breathing, being in the moment, and transporting yourself out of the moment. I was actually uniquely prepared for this. I had to be, there was no other help, no other way.

  Unfortunately, moments after I saw myself as a warrior Pocahontas princess giving birth calmly in a field, my mind did the skedaddle and deserted me. I had nowhere near the mental strength to hold my shit together. Completely falling apart is the biggest, fattest understatement of what happened to my mind and body on that day.

  Now, I realize there are women who want to experience natural childbirth and do so without complaining. They desire to feel and be present for the pain and suffering so they could enjoy more fully the reward that comes with it. That’s all great. I don’t understand it, but it’s cool with me and I fully support their choices. But not me. No sir. Bring on the drugs. Get that needle in my back and if you can’t do it, give it to me and I’ll fucking stick myself.

  Minutes before the birth of our son, the nurse finally pushed a clear vial of something through my IV. That something was supposed to take the edge off and bring my screaming from a twelve to a ten. Something turned out to be nothing. Nothing.

  Pain does crazy things to the mind. So when the pain not only didn’t get better, it got worse, I became irreversibly convinced that the attending nurse and Grant had conspired. I was more sure of it than I was sure I was going to die—they had colluded and now I was fucked and doomed to die in pain along with my unborn baby. I’d convinced myself they pushed water through my IV. They were just going to let me suffer and act like they gave me something.

  Pain does crazy things to the body. So do contractions and all I had was one. With no break to breathe, no sixty-second rest to have your loving husband get you a drink of water and sit behind you rubbing your neck, and no break to mentally prepare for the next contraction, the pain went from zero to twelve in three minutes. It stayed there for the duration of another forty-five. Which might not seem like a long time to some, but go ahead and try to shit out a dinner plate for over forty-five minutes. It’s a long fucking time no matter how much pain you’re in.

  I would have donated a kidney for the opportunity to lie in labor for three days like I had when I gave birth to Dani. Anything would be better than feeling like your insides were ripping open and you were going to bleed out and die—leaving behind your daughter, new husband and his baby.

  Go ahead and shame me here . . . it’s not that bad, women over-exaggerate, whatever. I don’t know what your experience was, but mine, PTSD.

  I felt bad for Grant. He had just witnessed me convince myself I was going to die and take our unborn child with me. Twenty-four hours later Grant and I walked out of the hospital with a new little human in tow. I carried the gifts, he carried the car seat with our wrinkled baby strapped carefully inside, safely secured with an armful of blue and white blankets.

  It’s been close to six years since that day. Dani now has a baby brother. Grant has a son. An heir if we were royal or had a castle. We don’t, but together we have so much more.

  I’m going to spare you another birthing story and tell you now that when the discussion about having a second baby wouldn’t disappear like I hoped, this is the conversation that ended in the conception of our daughter.

  “Didn’t you see what happened last time? I still have PTSD.”

  “Honey, you’ll get an epidural this time. It’ll be better. We’ll make sure of it.”

  “I’m not sure I can handle it any better. Something happened, I was possessed. And being pregnant is terrible.”

  “Of course you can, I’ll be there with you. I think we should have lots more babies.”

  “What!? Are you out of your mind? No way. NO WAY. You said one. ONE! When we were on the short bus at your condo before we were married you looked at me all charming like and asked if I could do it one more time. I said I could. I did. One time.”

  “Wouldn’t it be fun to have big family?”

  “No. It wouldn’t.”

  “Come on.” He grabs my hips, pulling me closer and lays that charming shit on me that he does when he wants to drag me out of a funk. He laughs and kisses and holds me until I smile with him. God dammit!

  “I can’t wholeheartedly say yes to pregnancy and another birth. If someone could deliver it to the door I’d say yes. I love all our babies but I don’t know if I can do pregnancy and birth again. I’m still traumatized by the last one.” He wraps me tight in his signature hold that he knows I melt into. “If you really want to have another baby, you’re just going to have to get me drunk and do it.”

  Grant laughs.

  He knows I’m serious.

  He pours me the largest glass of wine I’ve ever seen him pour.

  Less than a year later our house now has three bedrooms with offspring in each and one oversized, floppy dog that occupies the space between us every night in our king-size bed.

  Chapter 16

  Forever After-Grant

  He sits across from me once again. But on this night, his teeth are already stained a little reddish-purple, he’s one ahead. The vibe in our home is chill, and content. It’s Friday.

  C.J.: What has been the biggest blessing in your life?

  Grant: [swirling his wine glass] It’s impossible to say one thing right?

  C.J.: I sent you these like you asked. You had time to prepare. So no, it shouldn’t be impossible.

  Grant: I have many blessings that are all equally blessed. My family, my existence, the fortunes that have been present in our lives. You make your own way of course, but there is luck to some degree, serendipity.

  C.J.: That’s it. Really? Don’t you think you may have missed something here? You know what I would say?

  Grant: What?

  C.J.: You!

  Grant: Well honey, of course I would say you too.

  C.J.: Yeah but you didn’t so let me tell you something. I take a sip of my wine and set my computer to the side. The single most important decision you’ll ever make in your life is who you pick to be your partner. You may not have experienced this in the ways I have. But I know that if you want to go to Utah and volunteer at an animal sanctuary for a week, it depends on who your spouse is. Want to release a risky tell-all book about having an affair? Depends on who you ask. Parenting, finances, lifestyle and happiness decisions, they all have some, if not significant dependency on that other person. Care to change your answer?

  Grant: I agree with you honey, you’re right. If I had to grade my best decisions, you’re at the top. The apex decision.

  C.J.: Whatever, you’re placating me. He laughs and might come over and try to wrestle me or something. Doesn’t count now since I had to talk you into it.

  Grant: Oh whatever! Honey really? I tried to answer this right away. Don’t dis me woman!

  C.J.: What is the most important thing when picking the right person to marry?

  Grant: Diversity in personality, character, wants and desires. Gotta have different things that you like so one person can show the other person and vice versa. Instead of, “Oh, you like sky diving too, so do I blah blah bl
ah let’s go together” and not show each other anything new. You know. I don't know I’m just thinking. This is why I asked you to send me these in advance.

  C.J.: I did! Remember? I thought you said having the most commonalities was the most important?

  Grant: Yeah. Yes. For the most important things for sure. Goals, political views, religion, parenting, that sort of thing.

  C.J.: One more question. What is your best advice for other married couples on how to keep their bedroom life spicy?

  The word spicy requires exaggeration from anyone who says it. I think it’s a law in Montana.

  Grant: I would say . . . you just have to be open to suggestions. Grant stands, he is clearly getting a little wine tipsy. He rolls his hips like he’s doing a strip tease. Kona barks at him and wags her tail, which is funny and makes me laugh. You can’t just say, “No I’m not going to do that.” He grinds the air and spanks it again. You gotta try some shit sometimes, you know?

  C.J.: This better not be a conversation directed at me. If there is anyone in this room who has had to step up and get out of her comfort zone for someone’s fantasy, it’s me. Remember? Gravel road? Moonlight?

  He looks like someone who just found out their private sex-tape went public.

  Grant: Honey stop typing. You can’t tell that story. What about our neighbors? We’ll have to live with them forever. Please don’t. It’s embarrassing.

  C.J.: Oh I think it’s a little late to start worrying about embarrassing stories don’t you?

  Grant: But honey, if you tell that story we won’t ever be able to go on that road again.

  C.J.: Good. ‘Cause that was meant to be a one-nighter.

  Chapter 17

  Forever After-A New Secret Spot

  The sun was setting in the eastern sky just behind our cabin. The evening was calm and the water still. It was late in the summer. A summer like we’d never experienced before. In the years prior we would have been plotting how to steal away. This year, we were still plotting how to steal away only now we weren’t hiding from friends and family—we were trying to hide from the kids.