Chapter 8 Emma #2
“But they could have been,” I say weakly. As I do, I feel a crawling sensation move up my arms, and I have to quickly shake my limbs to get it off me. Something about the thought has my body reacting in an obscure way, and I feel like the only way to control it is clutching my hands together.
Steven notices and places a hand on my trembling knee. Of their own volition, my legs slow and eventually stop moving, relaxing under the weight of his touch.
“Steven, how did this interaction make you feel?” she asks, turning her gaze to him.
He exhales slowly, probably unsure if sharing his feelings will make things better or worse.
“I was confused at first. Then I was mad, and I reacted poorly, asking if she was out of her mind.” His grip on my knee tightens. “But after some time, I ended up just concerned.”
“Why?” she asks, still writing on the notepad.
“That’s not her,” he says, clearing his throat, his voice thick. “Emma is the gentlest person I know. To see her be destructive is alarming, so I’m concerned for whatever is going on inside of her.”
One of his hands moves up to mine still clutched at my chest, wedging its way between my palms and gripping me like a lifeline. I can’t help but lean into him.
“Have either of you discussed this situation since?”
“No,” he says, gripping the inside of my thigh and pulling me closer to him.
The tension and frustration is still there, I know it is, but the physical need to be touched and comforted by him overpowers those feelings, and suddenly his arms are wrapped around me, and all I can do is sob quietly into his chest.
“Well, from what I see, what you’re going through seems to be very typical during the postpartum stage.
As you both know, hormones after having a baby take about a year to level out, longer if you’re nursing.
So it’s very possible the reaction Emma had was from overstimulation.
Even if it’s not her normal behavior, it’s common to feel concerned, but I don’t think we need to worry just yet.
And Emma, have you considered asking Steven to help you with these lists you have? ”
I look up from Steven’s chest, mildly stunned by the question. “No.”
“Why not?” She leans forward.
“I don’t want to,” I whisper.
Steven releases his grip around me and snorts. “Why not?”
“I don’t want to bother you.”
“Emma, that’s crazy!” he blurts, but Dr. Belo raises a hand.
“Let’s stay away from the word crazy.”
Steven nods. “Right. That’s… You won’t bother me. I want to help you.”
“Emma, do you believe he wants to help you?”
“Of course I do,” I retort, mildly offended she would even ask that. But as I look between her and Steven, it’s clear neither of them believes me. “I do!” I say, irritation souring my gut.
“It doesn’t feel like you do,” Steven whispers, now looking down at his hands.
“Of course I want your help. I would love your help. I’m just too tired to ask.” I cross my arms. Creating distance between his skin and mine feels like the right move, but the absence of him is a cold shock to my nerves. “I know it’s ridiculous, but I want you to figure it out.”
He groans, the weight of this conversation pulling his shoulders down into a hunched position, looking like he would be fine caving in on himself instead of being here enduring this with me. “I can’t read your mind, Emma.”
“I’m not asking you to. But I do think some things are pretty obvious, and it’s frustrating when I have to point them out.”
“Can you give us an example?” Dr. Belo asks.
“Like making the kids’ lunches. It’s simple. They want the same thing every day, but I’m always staying up late to make them.”
Steven sits back quietly, mulling this over. His face moves through an array of emotions that I can’t decipher, but he doesn’t respond. Dr. Belo pulls off her spectacles, letting them hang around her neck, and informs us that our session is over.
“Same time next week?” she asks.
“Yes—”
“No,” I interject. “We will be out of town next week.” I give a weak smile.
“Two weeks, then. You have my number if you need anything. Please call during clinic hours if you do. If not, we will talk soon.”
“Thank you,” I say, shaking her hand as we go to leave. Steven just nods and rushes out of the office, down the hall, and jumps into the car.
I hurry to my side, in a way that allows me to ready myself for whatever might come on the drive home. But once I’m buckled, instead of starting the car, Steven jumps out.
Pressing his hands on the hood in front of me, he looks at me so intensely that heat ripples down my spine.
“What’s wrong?” I ask from inside the car.
He doesn’t speak at first. He watches me for a beat, then he backs away and paces back and forth, mumbling words under his breath.
He looks unruly, like he’s at the end of his rope, and it could snap at any moment.
The sound of his steps against the pavement sound louder than they probably are, each step more frantic than the first. Picking up speed, he comes closer to my window then backs away again.
“Steven,” I hiss, rolling down the window. “You look like a crazy person right now.”
I look around to make sure no one sees the exhausted dad stalking outside of a psychiatrist office. Not that I should care what anyone thinks, but the image of Steven this way, unstable and fragile, makes me ache for him. He’s usually the one keeping it together for us.
His pacing stops, and suddenly, he’s heaving breaths and pressing his palms into his eyes.
“Hey, hey.” I jump out of the car and reach for him. “What is happening right now?” I tug at his hands, but they don’t budge as they cover the majority of his face. “Steven, what are you doing?”
When he still doesn’t look at me, I yank his hands away. His face is pinched and raw, eyes red-rimmed and wild. Wild with a million thoughts swimming through them, thoughts he’s bottling up instead of sharing.
“Talk to me.” My words sound so desperate and pleading he softens.
You’re not alone, I think. His eyes skitter up and down my face and neck before they settle on something behind me. I try to meet his eyes, but he’s focused on something else.
“Why won’t you look at me?” I ask weakly, feeling suddenly abandoned by him in the middle of this parking lot. Even with him two feet away from me, I feel like I’m losing him.
I fight back the tears that sting my eyes.
Holding myself together is the only option.
I can’t crumble around him. I need him to fight for us without a sense of obligation forcing him to do so.
I will myself to stay in one piece, to not let him see the fractures growing under my skin.
But a pathetic whimper escapes me, and his eyes flash toward me.
Everything about him changes at the sound, his posture more upright, his eyes more attentive, his hands reaching for me on instinct.
Doctor mode activated as he searches every part of me for whatever he can fix. Like it’s his job, not his desire.
“Don’t.” I move away from his outstretched arms, knowing full well I would allow myself to crumble right into him, letting him hold me together like I have been for the last fifteen years. “You don’t get to fix me when you can’t even talk to me.”
His hands fall to his sides as he whispers, “I don’t know what to say.”
A sharp laugh slips out of me. It’s unkind, but I can’t help it.
“I know, I know.” He drags his palms down his face with a groan; I hear the scratch of his scruff against his skin. “It’s not fair. I go in there expecting you to talk, and then I can’t even do the same.”
I cross my arms, affirmed.
“When did I start getting it wrong?” His gaze drops to our feet. His hand rubs the back of his neck, like he can scrub the guilt out. “I don’t even make their lunch anymore. I irritate you instead of helping. I can’t fix any of it. Why can’t I fix it?”
“Maybe that’s the problem, Steven.” I take a breath. “You’re focusing on how to fix it, instead of just being in it.” He blinks at me, confused.
“You can’t fix everything. Especially me.” The horrible truth tightens my throat. “I’ve been this way since before we were together. Sometimes just being in it with me is all you need to do.”
“How?” It’s barely a word.
I shrug, having no idea myself. “Go back to the basics, maybe? Back to before life got like this.”
His eyes are glassy, the late-afternoon sunlight catching on the tears now traveling down the bridge of his nose. There’s pain there. A life we didn’t ask for. A life that has torn us into pieces. A life he has been refusing to let break him any more. “What if I can’t?”
I swallow hard. “What if you have to? What if it’s the only way?”