27. Colette
27
Colette
" W hat do you think your father would say if he could see us now, little one?" I murmur, my fingers tracing the curve of my swollen belly in a tender caress. A soft kick answers my rhetorical question, and I can't help but laugh, a rich, melodic sound that fills the room with warmth.
" He'd be in awe of you," I whisper, patting my belly gently.
Antonio's latest letter rests in my hands as I gaze down at the familiar scrawl, each word etched into the paper like an indelible promise. My fingers trace the curves and lines, as though I could feel the depth of his feelings through touch alone. A soft smile tugs at my lips as I think about it.
It's been four months since he entered rehab. Four months of waiting, of hoping, of clinging to these precious missives as if they were lifelines tethering me to him. And in a way, they are, with each letter, each heartfelt outpouring of emotion. I can feel him growing stronger, more resolute in his determination to heal.
A soft kick from within my womb draws my attention downward, my free hand cradling the swell of my belly with a tenderness I knew I possessed. "Your father is fighting for us," I whisper, my voice soft as a breeze in the quiet solitude of my room. "He's going to come back to us. I just know it."
The doubts still linger, of course, like dark clouds on the horizon—the fear that he'll falter, that the demons of his past will prove too strong. But I push them aside, choosing instead to focus on the faith that burns bright within my heart. Faith in Antonio, in his resilience, in his love for us.
With a contented sigh, I shift on the plush chaise lounge, letting the soft fabric cradle my growing form as I turn my attention back to Antonio's letter. The words seem to leap off the page, his emotions laid bare in the flowing script.
Dear Colette,
They allowed me to watch the Discovery Channel yesterday.
Something about a honey badger. I bet you didn’t know.
that honey badgers could defend themselves from animals
much larger than themselves, like hyenas and lions.
They are even more dangerous when protecting their young.
While watching that show, all I could think of was just how
much you have in common with a honey badger. Crazy, right?
Truth is, there’s no one else in the world I’d rather experience
this with. The baby, everything. I can’t wait, Col. It’s the one
thing that keeps me going, and I can’t wait to be with you again.
It feels like an eternity.
I also started writing music again. I know, I know, long overdue.
But I feel great. Better than I’ve felt in ages. All of this.
Everything I’m doing, I do for you and our child.
I love you, Col. Thanks for being so awesome.
Yours, always,
Antonio
PS: I got your painting. It was breathtaking. I still have
Some of the old ones from newspaper cutouts. Still my favorites.
I’m happy to know you’re painting again, and I can’t wait to
watch your work again.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as I read and re-read the words, letting them wash over me. Even through the constraints of pen and paper, I can feel the intensity of his love and passion that burns within him. It's a fire that ignites something deep inside me, a flame that refuses to be extinguished, no matter how dark things have been with me.
With a trembling hand, I reach for the sketchpad that has become my constant companion these past few months, its pages covered with powerful emotions, joy, sorrow, hope, and everything in between. My fingers curl around the familiar weight of a charcoal pencil, and I draw, letting the lines take shape beneath my touch.
Stroke by stroke, Antonio's face emerges from the blank canvas, his features etched with a fierce determination that resonates deep within my soul, just as I always choose to remember him in my paintings. I capture the depth of his eyes, the curve of his lips, every line, every shadow. All the fine, little details that make him one of the most handsome men I’ve ever met.
As I work, I can feel the weight of my belly straining my back, a constant reminder of the life that stirs within. But it's a burden I bear with pride, with joy, for this child is a living embodiment of our love, a precious gift born from the ashes of our struggles.
I shift on my perch, looking for comfort in the cushions. Nothing in this world could have prepared me for the strangeness of motherhood, but the closer I get to my due date, the more excited I am about the journey.
A flurry of movement nearby catches my eye, and I glance up to see one of Henry's servants bustling about, fluffing pillows and straightening the already immaculate surroundings. It's a constant whirlwind of activity, a never-ending parade of attendants catering to my every need.
At first, the attention felt stifling, a gilded cage trying to suffocate me with its opulence. But as the weeks have passed, I appreciate the care, the concern that underlies every gesture. Henry's way of ensuring my well-being, of protecting both me and my child.
"Thank you, Martha," I murmur, offering the kindly woman a warm smile. "You needn't fuss so much. I'm quite comfortable."
Martha clucks her tongue, her weathered features creasing into a fond smile. "Nonsense, my dear," she chides. "It's my job to make sure you and the little one want for nothing. Master Henry would have my head if I didn't take proper care of you."
I chuckle at her words, her affection as soothing as a warm embrace. These people, once little more than strangers employed by my family, have become an unexpected source of comfort amid my isolation.
"Well, in that case," I tease, "perhaps you could bring me a cup of tea? And maybe a few of those delightful lemon tarts you made the other day?"
Martha's eyes crinkle at the corners, her smile widening with delight. "Of course, my dear. It would be my pleasure."
As she bustles off to tend to my request, I turn my attention back to the sketchpad, my hand moving with renewed vigor. Line by line, stroke by stroke, I pour everything, my love, my hopes, my dreams, onto the canvas, letting each mark be a whispered prayer for the future.
The hours slip by, punctuated only by the occasional visit from Martha or one of the other servants, each bearing a tray laden with sustenance or some other small comfort. It's a routine I cherish, minor pleasures that improve my day, even if only just.
As the day wanes and the golden hues of sunset bleed through the windows, I set aside my sketchpad, my fingers stained with the remnants of charcoal. A soft sigh escapes my lips as I gaze upon the finished portrait, my heart swelling with a mix of pride and longing.
"Soon, my love," I murmur, tracing the contours of Antonio's face with a gentle caress. "Soon, we'll be together again."
The days bleed into weeks, each one marked by the steady stream of letters from Antonio. His words are a lifeline that keeps me tethered to our dream. And as the time passes, I can feel a shift within me, a growing sense of strength and purpose that mirrors the life blossoming inside me.
Gone are the days of haunted silences and sleepless nights, replaced by a newfound determination to embrace the future that awaits us. I spend my days lost in a whirlwind of creativity, my brushes dancing across canvas after canvas as I pour my soul into each painting.
The walls of my room transform in those weeks, turning into a kaleidoscope of colors and emotions that reflect the journey we've undertaken.
Here, a sweeping landscape bathed in the warm glow of the sun, the rolling hills a promise of the peace that lies ahead. There, a tumultuous sea, its crashing waves a testament to the storms we've weathered and the challenges we've overcome.
And during it all, a single recurring motif,a solitary figure, strong and resolute, standing tall against the onslaught of life's tempests. A beacon of hope, of perseverance, and everything that I love Antonio for.
Each canvas is a love letter, a whispered promise that I seal with a brush and send off to him, letting the colors speak the words my heart can contain.
And in return, he sends me his music, each chord a caress upon my soul, each lyric a gentle reminder of the depths of his devotion. I lose myself in the melodies, letting the notes wash over me, soothing the aches and fears that still linger in the darkest corners of my mind.
Together, our art becomes a fusion of love and healing, a sacred space where our souls intertwine, even as the physical distance between us stretches on.
As time goes by, I can feel the life within me growing stronger, more insistent in its demands for attention. The kicks and flutters, once gentle whispers, become powerful and difficult to ignore, bringing with it the tension that I’m certain every mother must experience weeks before childbirth.
In those quiet moments, when the world outside seems to fade away, I talk to our unborn child, my hands cradling the swell of my belly as I whisper soft endearments and promises of the future that await.
"Your father is such a remarkable man," I muse, tracing idle patterns across the taut skin that shields our little one from the world. "He's fighting so hard for us, my darling, battling demons that would break lesser souls."
A firm kick punctuates my words, as if in agreement, stunning me out of my reverie. I laugh, patting my belly. This late in my pregnancy, even the smallest tasks leave me covered in sweat and struggling to catch my breath.
"Oh, you're a feisty one, aren't you?" I tease, my voice laced with affection. "Just like your father, always ready to take on the world."
The thought fills me with a sense of pride, of awe. In that moment, I can see glimpses of the person our child will become, a fierce warrior imbued with the strength and resilience of their parents. A soul forged in the fires of our love, tempered by the battles we've fought to reach this point both and together.
I can hear voices in the garden outside my bedroom window, and I make my slow, shuffling way to the balcony overlooking the garden. Henry is down there, talking to Martha about something. I lean on the railing and watch my brother, grateful for how far we’ve come since I found out about his betrayal.
It feels like worlds ago it happened, and he’s done everything possible to atone for his mistake ever since. Our conversations still feel strained sometimes, but we are a long way from where we used to be some months ago.
He turns and looks up, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. He recognizes me and his lips curve into a smile, but it is quickly replaced with a frown. “Hey Col! What the hell are you doing out of bed? You know you could risk slipping and hurting yourself or the baby. Or both!”
I laugh. “Oh please. If you were in charge, a bunch of servants would take me to the bathroom in a palanquin.”
“Rightly so,” he teases, his frown easing. “Anything for your safety.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I feel stronger than I have in—”
A sudden pressure in my groin cuts me off and I gasp, clutching the railing tight for balance. My sight blurs and my hearing feels a little distorted. I look down at the garden and see Henry shouting a concerned query at me, just as a line of hot liquid pours down the side of my leg.
“Col?” Henry shouts again. “Are you alright?”
Wide eyed, I reply. “I hope so. I think my water just broke, Henry.”