“You must have made them tremble, little one.”
“No, it was Anthea, standing in the shadows like a threat. She was perfect.”
Drazen looks over Anja’s head at me and smiles. I feel as though I have won a medal. I wait for Anja to turn and thank me, but she grabs her sack and runs into the house.
“Happiness still catches her by surprise,” Drazen says. “She wants to go and hug it to herself in private.” He takes my hand in his, rubs his thumb against my palm and says, “You understand that, I’m sure.”
I almost tell him then, but I don’t want to do it in my costume so I wait. Dinner comes and goes without me finding the right moment. Anja gets permission to sleep in her Wednesday outfit because, as she explained very seriously, “It is still Halloween until morning,” and then Drazen and I are alone.
I go into the bedroom to change out of my Morticia costume. Drazen follows me. Leaning against the door frame, he looks at me, waiting for something.
I want to tell him. But not yet. I need to think some more, I tell myself. Coward, I reply.
“Come to bed,” Drazen says.
“I have to do some work first. I’ll be back later.”
I can see he doesn’t believe me, but he makes no comment when I go back downstairs.
I sit at my laptop, pretending to work, trying to find my courage. I make some coffee and go out onto the back porch.
The moon is full tonight. It sits in the sky, large and round and proud. It occurs to me that the moon and I are both pregnant, except that I don’t show yet.
This is what I need to tell Drazen. So what’s stopping me? We aren’t married. We’ve never really talked about the future. A man with a past like Drazen’s can be forgiven for living in the present. I don’t want to drive him away and I don’t want to force him to commit. And I don’t know how I feel about being pregnant.
I know exactly when this baby was conceived. It was on the anniversary of Sanja’s death. Drazen had never talked to me about how his wife died, but then I’d never found him crying before. I held him and let him cry.
“They hurt her, Anthea, before they killed her; they spent a day hurting her. And I couldn’t stop them. I didn’t even know what was happening until they dumped her body at my door.”
I rocked him, holding his head to my breast.
“She was my life, Anthea. And they killed her.”
There was nothing to say, so I stayed silent.
After a while, he looked up. His eyes had no strength in them, only sorrow. I kissed them one at a time. Then I kissed his mouth, again and again, small healing kisses.
I put his hand between my legs. I don’t know why I did it. Words seemed so inadequate. I gave him what I had. The sex started slowly. I sat astride him and pulled him into me. Then I carried on kissing him. He stopped crying. He held me so tightly that it left bruises. Then he started to fuck me, fiercely, passionately, as if fucking me was the only thing that kept him alive. He clung to me even after he had come. I still hadn’t spoken to him, but now it was me who was crying.
I think he was saying goodbye to his wife that night. I know he was choosing me, choosing life. It turns out that we were also creating one.
I shiver in the cold and realize I have been outside a long time. Drazen is asleep when I reach the bedroom. The moon is washing his face with silver. He looks older, more vulnerable. I want him so badly it frightens me.
Time to choose: trick or treat?
I stroke his face, following the moon, then I sit astride him. He doesn’t wake until I kiss him. I place his hands on my breasts and rock gently on his cock, which is lying flat against his belly. I lift my hips and he slides into me. So good to have him there. So good to have him.
“There is something I need to tell you,” I say.
Drazen puts his finger across my lips pulls my head down to him. He pushes upwards, slowly, without urgency, until he is all the way in. “What shall we call the child?” he says.
Thanksgiving
“You want me to sleep here?”
“Well, this is where you slept when you lived here, Helen. Why should it change now? I thought you’d be pleased to have your old room back.”
I try to read my mother’s face. She must being doing this deliberately. And she must know that I can see what she is doing. But she still has that innocent, not-quite-connected-to-planet-earth look that she uses to avoid any minor questions about her decisions that my father might be rash enough to voice.
I stare in disbelief at the single bed that I slept in as a child. It’s a very narrow single bed.
“I know that you prefer to ignore the fact that Peter and I are married, Mother, but he is my husband and I expect to have him in my bed. We can’t sleep here.”
“Really, Helen, I have no idea where you get these impressions from. I have no opinion about Peter. As I said at the time, who you chose to marry was up to you.”
What she’d said at the time was, “Are you sure you want to marry Paul, dear? He’s such a bland man. I can see the advantage of having someone manageable but marriage needs a little spice if it’s to last. I’ve always preferred to wake up to Huevos Rancheros. The problem with Paul is that he’s just so… oatmeal.”
I’d stood there, with my hands balled into fists and my jaw clenched, trying to quell the desire to hit her. “His name is Peter, Mother,” I’d spat out.
“You see, dear, not even his name is memorable. Ah well. It is your decision, of course.”
Now, seven years later, I find myself having to bite back my anger one more time. My mother is talking. I’m trying not to strangle her.
“I didn’t think that you and Peter would mind being separated for one night. I’ve given him the fold-down bed in your father’s den. He’ll be perfectly comfortable. I had to give the guest bedroom to Troy and Dianna; after all, they have the baby to think of.”
The baby. Of course, we should be thinking about the baby. My younger brother (what kind of mother calls their kids Helen and Troy?) produced a grandchild right off the bat. I, of course, committed the sin of putting my career ahead of my duty to deliver grandchildren, although even that became Peter’s fault in my mother’s mind. “If Peter has a problem dear, I can recommend an excellent clinic.” My mother had left that helpful tip on our answerphone in the second year of my marriage. Peter played it back to me when I got home from work.
I don’t resent the fact that Troy and Dianna got the big bed. I resent the implication that Peter is so bland that I won’t even notice his absence.
“I want him here with me, Mother.”
Even I can hear how petulant I sound.
“Well, if it’s that important to you, dear, I’ll ask your father to move the fold-down bed in here. I’m sure he won’t mind. Although, of course, he has only just set everything up in the den. But then your father always makes sure that his little Helen gets what she wants, doesn’t he?”
I don’t believe it. She is still jealous of the fact that Dad will do things for me.
“There won’t be a lot of room in here. You’ll have to fold up the bed before you can open the door. But, if that’s what you want…”
Oh God. It is always like this. A constant trickle of words that erode my will. I either have to get angry or shut down and give in. Giving in is easier. If I push her now, the topic will come up at dinner. And again in the morning. And the next time we come to the house. If there is a next time.
“Never mind, Mother. Peter can stay where he is. Let’s just concentrate on getting dinner ready.”
“Well, if you’re sure, dear.”
How did this woman live so long?
“You look tense, Helen. Why don’t you take a moment to freshen up? Dianna is changing the baby in the bathroom but you can use the en suite in the master bedroom. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready.”