Chapter 38 Steven
Chapter thirty-eight
Steven
When We Pushed Too Hard
Emma - Isn’t he so cute?!
My watch pings, and a photo of Easton pops up on the tiny screen. He’s wearing a chef’s hat, proudly holding a bowl of “soup” with his triumphant grin gleaming back at me.
Emma - It’s alphabet soup!!!
Except, when I squint, it’s not soup at all, just a jumble of multicolored squares and magnetic letters.
Easton and Sawyer have officially started first grade.
They’re gone five days a week, which means my phone has become less a communication tool and more a dumping ground for the never-ending picture mill of elementary school.
And Emma forwards. Every. Single. Photo. To me.
Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing them smile. I love watching them learn. I love that Emma still wants me in these little moments. But when my wrist pings mid–throat exam, it gets…distracting.
“Abscess in room four,” Sarah Kim announces too enthusiastically for someone about to deal with ear pus.
She bounces on her toes as she hands me the chart.
She’s our summer intern—a favor to Emma and Benny—and two weeks in, I’m already mildly exhausted.
Not just because I’m pulling doubles before baby three arrives, but because I have to explain every little thing I do—or don’t do.
All for the betterment of a teenager with a malleable mind, who thinks she wants to be a doctor.
“Maybe. I’m not sure,” she’d said. “Or I’ll study archaeology.”
My watch pings a third time just as we enter room four. It’s a quick abscess, easy fix. Sarah practically vibrates with excitement, like this is something to write home about, while she applies the bandage. I miss that. I miss caring about small victories.
The rest of the day blurs by. I finish my documentation and head to my weekly appointment.
Therapy. It hasn’t been what I expected.
I feel stupid for assuming it would be easy.
I thought it would help untangle things.
Instead, I feel like I’m the only one talking.
Emma listens, wanting to talk but not really saying everything.
And it’s starting to frustrate me more than help.
I’m just tired. And the last few times I’ve shown up, I’ve been late. Then Dr. Belo subtly reprimands me for not making it a priority. I want to yell I’m here, aren’t I? Clearly, it’s a priority! But I just nod sheepishly.
Not today, though. Today, I’m ten minutes early. Enough time to indulge in their fancy cappuccino machine, which feels like a small, rebellious luxury.
“Good afternoon, Steven,” Dr. Belo greets me, appearing in the doorway that separates the lobby from the hall of offices.
“Afternoon,” I say, watching foam bubble and spill into the cup. The machine dings once it’s finished, and I scoop it up.
She smiles as I turn back, holding it carefully. “Those are a great part of my day too.”
“Oh, it’s just coffee,” I mutter, though the warmth seeping into my fingers is doing the same to my mood.
She leads the way to her office, sitting in her chair while I slowly, stealthily set the steaming cup on the coffee table.
“What’s the coffee at the hospital like?” she asks.
I snort. “Not as good as this stuff, but it gets the job done.”
“When was the last time you had the fancy stuff?”
I eye her. Is this small talk, or are we officially starting?
“I used to get it quite a bit,” I finally say. “Haven’t had the time in the last…year or so.”
“Hmm. Is that frustrating for you?”
Ah. So we’ve begun.
“I guess,” I murmur into the steam, wincing when it burns my tongue.
“Has anything else frustrated you lately?”
I purse my lips. No warm-up questions for me, apparently. Emma gets asked about watercolors and weather patterns, but I’m just pelted with analytics right out of the gate.
“I don’t know,” I lie. I remember the exact moment I was frustrated last. “Maybe when Emma left the house without saying goodbye last week.” I shrug, like it doesn’t matter. But it does. She got the boys ready, and they all left without saying a word.
“Did you ask her why she didn’t say anything?”
“No.”
“Where were you when they left?”
“In our bedroom.”
Her brow arches over her thick, red frames, and they slide down the bridge of her nose.
“Okay, I might’ve been asleep. I worked a double the day before.”
“Do you think maybe she didn’t want to disrupt you?”
“Maybe,” I mumble, sipping the cappuccino. It’s still hot, but it’s so good I can’t stop myself. The steam tickles my nose, and I realize how absurd it is that I am finding great joy in this little drink. It’s mostly milk anyway.
As I’m smiling into my cup, Dr. Belo pulls out her trusty notepad and begins writing. My jaw ticks. She’s definitely making a note I’ll disagree with later.
“Does she?” she asks, eyes fixed on her notes.
“Does she what?” I reply, wary.
“Disrupt you.”
I scoff. The idea of Emma disrupting me is absurd. “Not really.”
“Does she know that?”
“Of course,” I say too quickly, like it should be obvious.
Dr. Belo tilts her head, and I sigh, realizing I don’t believe my answer. “I think she knows?”
“Maybe we can discuss that today,” she says.
“Discuss what?”
My gaze whips to the doorway. Emma stands there, panting slightly, hands cradling her belly from underneath like it’s a package she’s delivering. I leap up to offer my seat, but she shakes her head.
“I need to stand for a bit,” she says, catching her breath. “What are we discussing?” Her eyes shift to Dr. Belo for guidance.
“I think it would be helpful to discuss the assumptions you two make about each other.”
“What do you mean?” I croak as a damp heat crawls up my neck.
“Isn’t assuming bad?” Emma asks, equally uncomfortable. “Wouldn’t it cause more problems?”
“Sometimes,” Dr. Belo says. “But right now, the unspoken is doing more damage. I think it’s time we hear what you’re not saying.”
“Why?” I blurt out sharper than I mean to.
“Because, Mr. Jones, our sessions haven’t been productive. You’re both tiptoeing around the real issues. And if we don’t address them, what are you paying me for?”
My eyes drop to Emma’s belly. The baby, our baby. Bringing up stressful things—anxious things—feels wrong. Dangerous.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I whisper.
“No harm will come to the baby,” she says gently. “And if Emma becomes distressed or anxious, we will stop.”
“Are you sure?” Emma’s voice is small, worried.
“Of course. Your and the baby’s well-being is a top priority.
” Dr. Belo gives Emma a reassuring smile, one we rarely see.
She’s usually very pensive and neutral in her expressions.
“But…” she adds. “You both said you wanted to work through this before the baby arrives, correct?” Emma and I both nod as she gestures to the calendar hanging near the door. “We’re running low on time.”
I clear my throat as an unsettling shiver moves down my spine. Still, I nod. “Okay.”
“Great.” Dr. Belo gestures for Emma to sit, and she does slowly.
Her belly is taut against her slender frame, and the white summer dress she’s wearing stretches tight against it.
She winces as she tries to get comfortable, tension rising in her shoulders as she musters the strength to stay upright.
Baby will be here in a month. She’s so close.
Though, I’m sure she’d be thrilled if they came today.
“Let’s circle back,” Dr. Belo says. “We were talking about Emma”—she nods toward my wife, who is suddenly very still—“and disruptions.”
“What?” Emma snaps. “You think I’m a disruption?”
“No,” Dr. Belo says calmly. “He said the opposite.”
“Oh.” Emma deflates, but her eyes stay locked on me.
“Do you believe that to be true, Emma?”
“Me?” She blinks. “Um, yeah. Of course I believe that.”
I snort, and her nostrils flare at me.
“What?” I ask. “You don’t have to lie. I know you don’t believe it.”
“How do you know?” she fires back, crossing her arms and legs as much as she can manage, chin tipped up in stubborn defiance.
It’s almost cute, watching her force herself to stay composed when I know she’d rather melt into the floor.
If we were in our living room, she’d be horizontal by now, pretending gravity made the choice for her.
“Because I know you, Em.”
“And I know you, Steven,” she retorts.
“Do you?”
She recoils like I slapped her, and guilt spikes hard in my throat. She’s my wife. The mother of my children. She knows me better than anyone. But lately, I don’t think she’s really seen me. And being known and being seen can be two very different things.
“What are you thinking, Steven?” Dr. Belo asks gently.
I swallow hard. I either say it or this entire session is pointless.
“I’m thinking my wife doesn’t see me the way she used to.”
Emma lets out a single, sharp, “Ha.” It hits something raw and tender in me. My fists clench in my lap. My jaw locks. Irritation courses through me.
“You don’t see me the same either you know,” she whispers. There’s no accusation, just admission. Exhaustion. Like it’s something she’s held in so long that letting it out is difficult.
“You don’t give me a chance,” I snap back, regretting it instantly.
Hurt flashes across her face, and I hate myself for how easy it’s become to respond that way to her. I drag my hands over my face, stubble scratching my palms, wishing I could pull the words back.
She shifts away from me, wrapping her arms around her belly like she wants to protect the baby from me. Heat floods my face, and all I want to do is reach for her, apologize, take it all back. But she just stares at the floor like she wants to disappear into it.
Dr. Belo clears her throat. “Emma, what are you thinking right now?”
She shakes her head, eyes still on the ground. “Nothing.”
“Are you sure?” Dr. Belo leans forward.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” I mutter, already overstepping.
“Steven, please…” Dr. Belo silences me with a hand.
“She’s not,” I press. “She always says she’s fine, but she hasn’t been fine for a while. I’m sitting here trying to be honest, and she’s just shutting down.”
“Some people need a little more time to get there, Steven. We have to give her that.”
“I’m not shutting down,” Emma says weakly. Unconvincing.
“You’re not saying anything,” I argue.
The softness of her jaw tenses into a rigid hard line. Her knees tremble, and her forearms are taut as she squeezes her hands tightly together.
I inhale a slow breath and try to speak softer. “Emma, please talk to me.”
“I don’t have anything to say,” she whispers.
My nostrils flare as red-hot frustration ripples up my spine. “Emma…you need to talk to me. This is never going to get better if you don’t tell me anything. You can yell, scream, if you have to. Fight with me. Just say something.”
“Steven, stop.” Her lips shake.
“No. I can’t,” my voice cracks under the pressure building in my chest. “I can’t be the only one fighting. We have been through so much, and we haven’t talked about any of it. We need to talk.”
“Oh, really?” She straightens with a new fire in her eyes, and I instinctively brace myself.
“You want to talk? Why don’t we talk about how you’ve been avoiding your family?
Or the fact that your mom fell last week, and you didn’t tell me?
Let’s talk about how you’re working so much because you don’t want to address anything unless it’s here”—she waves her hands around wildly—“in this controlled environment. You can’t demand I talk when you won’t even figure out your stuff on your own. ”
“I don’t know how!” I shout. “At least here someone can guide us. Someone can help me figure out how to fix all of this.”
“What if she can’t?!” Emma shouts back.
“Then I will. You just need to tell me what you’re thinking. What you need.”
Her breath goes shallow and unsteady. She rubs a hand across her chest, the other hand firmly atop her belly, tapping a finger like she’s trying to regulate herself. Through pursed lips, I hear the rhythmic breathing she does for anxiety.
“Emma,” I plead quietly. “Please talk to me.”
“I can’t,” her voice wobbles.
“You can,” I push harder, sounding so desperate I don’t know how to reel myself in. “Can you just try?”
“I said I can’t!” she yells, her voice cracking loud enough that both Dr. Belo and I jerk.
“Why?” I ask, barely above a whisper.
“Because I don’t know how long I can keep doing this.”
The words twist around my ribs, and my breath hitches, as if a hole has been poked in my lungs, and all the air is slowly leaking out of my body.
“What do you mean?” I ask shakily.
Her eyes finally meet mine as terror and heartbreak swim in the tears that cling to her lashes.
“I don’t know how long I can keep pretending I’m okay,” she cries, a tear cascading down her cheek. “I can’t keep this up. I feel like a ticking time bomb. It’s just a matter of time before I explode and disrupt everything. I don’t know how to hold it all together, and I’m just so tired.”
“What’re you saying?” I force the words out as pressure builds behind my eyes.
“I’m saying…” She squeezes hers shut, letting more tears drift down her cheeks. “What if it’s too late? What if we can’t fix this?”
Everything inside me stops. My heart, my lungs, the nerves that would usually spark and send me into fight mode. All of it…stops.
“Is that what you want?” Dr. Belo asks her.
“I’m not sure. I mean, it’s not my—”
She gasps then freezes. Then everything changes.
Suddenly, her eyes are frantically dropping to her lap then back up to mine. I’m already on my feet, hovering above her as the trickling of water soaks her shoes.
“We have to go,” I say, hauling her up to standing. A puddle rests where she sat, and Dr. Belo is already down the hall, grabbing the phone.
“It’s too early,” Emma sobs, clinging to my shirt as I lead her down the hall.
“Baby’s full-term,” I say quickly, kneeling in front of her, my heart in my throat. “You’re okay. The baby’s okay. I’ve got you.”
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
“Me too,” I admit.
But it’s not just having this baby that terrifies me right now. It’s what comes after. Are we really beyond saving?