up her legs, sliding the washcloth behind her knees and over her thighs. He rubs her arms and her stomach and the shoulder-blade hollows of her back. He uses the buoyancy of the water to lift her, slipping the washcloth over her bottom and through her legs. He washes her breasts and sees the nipples tighten. He takes the Tupperware cup he keeps on the bathtub ledge and pours clean water over Paige’s hair, tilting her head back as the dark-red strands grow sleek and black.
Nicholas wrings out the washcloth and hangs it up to dry. The water is still running in the tub, the level rising. As Paige starts to move, water splashes onto his shirt and in his lap. She reaches forward and makes a low, throaty sound, stretching her hand toward Max’s rubber duck. Her fingers close over the yellow head, the orange bill. “Oh, God,” she says, turning to Nicholas. “Oh, my God.”
It happens very quickly-Paige lurches out of the tub and Nich olas rises up to meet her. She wraps her arms around his neck and clutches at the fabric of his shirt until it pulls over his head. All the time he is kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her neck. His fingertips circle her breasts as her hands struggle to unbuckle and unzip. When they are both naked, Nicholas leans over Paige on the white tile and gently brushes her lips. To his surprise, she locks her fingers into his hair, kissing him greedily and refusing to free him.
It has been so long since he felt his wife next to him, holding him, surrounding him. He recognizes every smell and every texture of her body; he knows the points where their skin will meet and become slick. In the past he has thought mostly of his own body-the heavy pressure building between his legs and the moment he knows to let go and the catch of his heart in his throat when he comes-but now he only wants to make Paige happy. The thought runs through his mind over and over; it is the least he can do. It has been so long.
Nicholas can gauge by Paige’s breathing what she feels. He pauses and whispers against Paige’s neck. “Will this hurt?”
She looks up at him, and Nicholas tries to read her expression, but all he can see is the absence of fear, of regret. “Yes,” she says. “More than you know.”
They come together with the fury of a storm, clawing and scratching and sobbing. They are pressed so close they can barely move, just rocking back and forth. Nicholas feels Paige’s tears against his shoulder. He holds her as she trembles and closes softly around him; he cries out to her when he loses control. He makes love with a violence bred of passion, as if the act that creates life might also be used to ward away death.
They fall into a deep sleep on the bed, on top of the comforter. Nicholas curls his body around Paige as though that might protect her from tomorrow. Even in his sleep he reaches for her, filling his hand with the curve of her breast, crossing her abdomen with his arm. In the middle of the night he wakes up, to find Paige staring at him. He wishes there were words to say the things he wants to say.
Instead he pulls her against him and begins to touch her again, much more slowly. In the back of his mind he thinks he should not be doing this, but he cannot stop himself. If he can take her away for a little while, if she can take
Nicholas closes his eyes as Paige runs her tongue along the line of his throat and spreads her small hands across his chest. For a quick moment he lets himself believe that she belongs to him every bit as much as he belongs to her. Paige kisses the corner of his mouth. It is not about possession and limits. It is about giving everything until there’s nothing left to give, and then searching and scraping until you find a little bit more.
Nicholas rolls over so that he and Paige are facing each other on their sides. They stare at each other for a long time, running their hands over familiar skin and whispering things that do not matter. They come together two more times that night, and Nicholas tallies their lovemaking silently. The first time is for forgiving. The second time is for forgetting. And the third time is for beginning all over again.
chapter 44
I wake up in my own bed, in Nicholas’s arms, and I have absolutely no idea how I got there.
Nicholas stirs beside me. The white sheets contrast with his black hair, making him look immortal. As his eyes open, I have a fleeting memory of the night before, Nicholas’s hands moving over my body like a running line of fire. I startle and pull the sheet up to cover myself. Nicholas rolls onto his back and closes his eyes.
“This probably shouldn’t have happened,” I whisper.
“Probably not,” Nicholas says tensely. He rubs his hand across his jaw. “I called the hospital at five,” he says. “Max was still sleeping soundly, and his vitals were good. The prognosis is excellent. He’ll be fine.”
Nicholas nods. “At ten o‘clock,” he says, and then he rolls out of bed to step into paisley boxer shorts. “Do you want to use this bathroom?” he says quietly, and without waiting for an answer, he pads down the hall to the smaller one.
I stare at myself in the mirror. I am shocked by the shadows above my cheeks and the reent D‡d cast of my eyes. I look around for my toothbrush, but of course it isn’t there; Nicholas would have thrown it out months ago. I borrow his, but I can barely brush my teeth because my hands are shaking. The toothbrush clatters into the bowl of the sink and leaves a violent blue mark of Crest. I wonder how I ever became so incompetent.
Then I remember that stupid list of accomplishments I made the day I ran away from home. What had I said? Back then I could change a diaper, I could measure formula, I could sing my son to sleep. And now what can I do? I rummage in the drawers beneath the sink and find my old makeup bag, tucked into a corner behind Nicholas’s unused electric razor. I pull out a blue eyeliner and throw the cap into the toilet. 1., I write on the mirror,
With my words covering the stark bathroom in flowered curlicues of green and blue, I become inspired. I take the pale-lime shampoo from the bathtub and smear it over the tiled walls; I draw pink lipstick hearts and orange Caladryl scrolls on the tank of the toilet. Nicholas comes in sometime after I am finishing a line of blue toothpaste waves and diving aloe vera dolphins. I flinch, expecting him to start yelling, but he just smiles. “I guess you’re done with the shampoo,” he says.
Nicholas doesn’t take the time to eat breakfast, which is fine with me, even though it is only eight o’clock. We may not be able to see Max right away, but I will feel better knowing I am closer to my child. We get into the car, and I notice Max’s car seat pushed to the side; I wonder how it got that way. I wait for Nicholas to back out of the driveway, but he sits perfectly still, with his foot on the brake and his hand on the clutch. He looks down at the steering wheel as if it is something fascinating he has never seen before. “Paige,” he says, “I’m sorry about last night.”
I shiver involuntarily. What did I expect him to say?
“I didn’t mean to-to do that,” Nicholas continues. “It’s just that you were in such bad shape, and I thought-hell, I don’t know what I was thinking.” He looks up at me, resolved. “It won’t happen again,” he says.
“No,” I say quietly. “I suppose it won’t.”
I look up and down the thin stretch of street that I once imagined I’d be living on for most of my life. I don’t see actual objects, like trees and cars and fox terriers. Instead I see eddies of color, an impressionist painting. Green
