Chapter 19
The days after my check-up and my chat with Vicky, it’s much of the same sweet routine. Ash, Winnie and I eat breakfast together around the same little round table, and on Tuesday I cheer for Winnie when Ash shows her how to hold a spoon and eat her own yoghurt.
We play blocks on the carpet in the living-room, then we play dolls and finally, Winnie requests Ash reads a book.
And then another one. Every afternoon we take a nap on the big couch together, Ash’s head on my lap and Winnie’s small body curled on his other side.
I don’t sleep, scared of missing even a single second of this new reality and waking up with no memories of it.
The arm in my brace hurts with the weather changing from sunny to rainy to sunny again, but I don’t mind. There’s something tugging at my chest, something that pulls me towards the little girl, and towards Ash.
After our nap Ash usually writes his PhD and I exercise while Winnie imitates my movements.
On Wednesday I meet Dr. Bakari and tell him about the way Ashley looks at me, the way he looks at Winnie.
My therapist reminds me to be kind and take it easy and if I hear this from one more person, I will not be held responsible for my actions.
Said actions being bursting into tears and blaming the universe for taking my memories, the memories of the most beautiful things in my life.
Every evening, we get ready for bed and it’s a messy yet effective routine.
I’m in charge of bathing Winnie and after, Ash is in charge of choosing the bedtime story.
I get to stare at him and study all the details that make him a great father.
The way his tall form is curved to fit on the floor beside Winnie’s bed, the way he reassures her in his softest voice that everything’s good, everything’s alright.
I’m fascinated by how easily I fit in with Ash and Winnie, even with no recollection of them. Every detail I learn makes sense, and at the end of each day, I review every new piece of information, treasuring them and hoping with my entire soul that I get to live another day to remember them.
As I’m dropping Winnie’s clothes in the laundry one evening, I wonder if I should start a journal.
Start taking notes of everything I learn, of every laugh, every cry.
Write down how Ash nuzzles his nose in Winnie’s hair before brushing it, first thing in the morning.
How endearing Winnie is when she yawns at exactly seven-thirty; how the sight of Ash and Winnie together makes me want to vomit my guts out every day.
I want to write how I need to be closer to Ash at night, how hugging and kissing him is not enough anymore.
I crave him closer and under me, above me.
Scratch that. Journaling is a horrible idea.
It’s a calm routine.
Until Friday, Winnie wakes up and in place of the sunniest girl on the planet, is a wild devil that just won’t stop crying.
“Maybe there’s something wrong with her,” I tell Ash and I receive a frustrated look back.
“She’s okay. She is a baby. Happens sometimes.”
But Winnie doesn’t stop screaming and whining and nothing calms her down, nothing cheers her up. Her big eyes are filled with tears and her little mouth is wet and drooly and frankly, a little disgusting.
Ash shoos me out of the room and even behind a door, Winnie’s shouting is deafening. I don’t get it.
I wish I didn’t hate it, but despite my best efforts, I do. I can’t stand the crying and how Ash keeps Winnie away from me that day, like she’s an inconvenience, a bug on the wall. Even more, I can’t stand how relieved I actually am.
So I walk downstairs to the basement and play my guitar, pretending I don’t mind. It’s a horrible day and it makes me wish I could just disappear. It makes me feel like I’m a terrible father, whilst not even being sure I’m a father at all.
It’s much later that Friday night, when Winnie is finally asleep, that I start breathing again.
I catch Ash closing the patio door behind him, an apologetic look on his face. He pops two mints in his mouth and takes his shirt off, throwing it onto a chair. It smells like cigarettes.
I offer him a smile, kind and understanding.
“Sorry, I, uh… Sorry.” Ash begins, but I lift a hand to stop him.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Sure? Sorry I couldn’t help.” I follow Ash to the couch and sit beside him.
Ash shrugs. “It’s hard, sometimes.”
“And it’s harder with me,” I acknowledge. It’s meant to be a question, but in the end it isn’t.
“Yeah.” Ash never lied to me. I wish he’d start today.
We sit in silence for a while, and I wonder if this is what parenting is: the quiet at the end of the day, the lingering anxiety a child might wake up any minute. I find Ash’s hand and start playing with his fingers. It’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Have you ever thought of-”
“Get high as fuck and get out of here forever?”
The words are rougher than I expected but yes, yep, I nod. If it isn’t exactly what I meant to ask.
Ash takes a deep breath, sinks into the couch.
“There was one very bad night. I think it was shortly after she’d come to stay with us, back in April.
Maybe in May. She’d been crying for days and she didn’t want to go to sleep.
You were out for something and I… That night I really thought about leaving, cutting myself up and just going to sleep forever. ”
A cold hand around my wrist.
“Don’t leave me.”
The memory hits me like a slap across my face. I stop breathing altogether and chase the words, hoping for more.
“You didn’t," I say eventually.
Ash laces our fingers together firmly, grounding us both in the present. “I didn’t.”
“You think about that often?” I wish I didn’t have to ask. My thumb finds the scarred tissue of Ash’s wrist and I leave a soft, supporting caress there.
“No. Okay, yes, once. In two years. But besides that, no. Never. This is all I’ve ever wanted.”
Ash’s brows shoot up.
Relief makes me giggle. It’s a sinister sound, but Ash is smiling at me and the truth hurts a little less. I worry for him a little less.
“I like that.”
After that day, it gets better. Not easy, just easier.
Ash tells me Winnie is due to start potty training soon, and together we make a list of supplies.
Ash drives us to the store and we pick disposable nappies and washable training pants.
When we get back and set up the little potty with its matching step stool for the sink, I have to sit down and count to ten. Then I count to one hundred.
I let Winnie pick her clothes for the day and always give her a colourful option and a black one, just to check if she really is my daughter.
She always picks colour, and I don’t feel any disappointment at all.
I learn Winnie’s curls are softest after a shower, exactly like mine yet entirely different.
I learn that after Ash sneezes once, it’s downhill from there.
“I’m okay,” he lies, hiding in the bedroom on Sunday morning. But it’s too late. Ash starts coughing, then Winnie starts coughing. Ash gets a fever, the baby gets a fever. Ash pretends he’s okay, Winnie cries and whines and calls out “Pa” and “Da.”
And this time, I learn that I don’t mind.
I cuddle Winnie, wiping her wet nose and tickling her sides. I make her a vegetable soup that she eats dutifully. I hold her against my chest until she stops crying and then some more, because she just looks so peaceful when she sleeps. I wish I had my phone near to snap a picture.
I just stare at Winnie and count every breath and hope she’ll feel better in the morning. With my good arm I carry her upstairs and sing her an old lullaby though she’s already asleep.
When I go back downstairs and Ash doesn’t allow me in the bedroom, I snap at him. “I’ve been around a sick child the whole day, I can handle your sorry arse.”
And so Ash does let me in. He looks miserable, wrapped in a thick blanket on the top of the bed. He’s wearing only a shirt and yellow boxers and when I touch his forehead, I’m relieved he’s not burning. I force him under the shower and when Ash makes a move for my dick, I push his hand away.
“Ashley,” I warn earnestly, but his blue eyes are glossy, lips parted.
“Please. I need-”
I try to resist him, I really do. “You’re sick.”
“Never too sick for your fat cock,” Ash enunciates the words ridiculously, and in 2024, it doesn’t make me laugh. It makes me hard.
So I push Ash against the shower wall, and he hooks a thigh around my hip because that’s the kind of cheeky tart Ash would be.
But I love him, so.
“No kissing.”
I try to set some ground rules, but Ash is grinding his hips into me and we’re both hard and wet and panting.
Within minutes, I’m holding both our dicks in one hand and jerking us frenziedly.
It’s messy and disconnected but Ash’s head is thrown back and he’s smiling and I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful.
I don’t want this to end, don’t want this to be lame and unsatisfying but then, Ash is hiding his face in my neck and his hand are finding my butt cheeks.
Before I can think of how unknown and frightening this is, my back arches instinctively and I push closer, trying to keep my right arm as still as possible.
It’s too much. The feeling of Ash’s index pressing against my rim, the cautious tapping and the short pause before I nod my head violently. Yes, fuck, please.
Ash has just managed to push one knuckle inside of me, and then I’m coming, and Ash is right behind me.
His pupils are dilated and his face is contorted in an expression of pleasure so breath-taking, I’ve never seen on anybody else.
All because of me. And then, the no kissing rule is out of the window.
I find Ash’s mouth and I slip my tongue inside, actively forcing my left hand to let go of our softening lengths.
“I love you,” Ash breathes out against my lips and he’s hiding in my neck again.