You…and my parents.
Unconditionally.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
It’s almost midnight. Apart from some exercise, I’ve enjoyed a quiet day with my wife; our only excursion has been to see Ray, who is definitely on the mend. Other than that, I’ve insisted that Ana stay in bed and rest. She’s acquiesced but has been reading a couple of manuscripts, and no amount of cajoling on my part could persuade her otherwise.
Mrs. Jones has returned from her sister’s, and this evening she prepared a hearty three-course meal for the two of us. She seems as anxious for Ana’s well-being as I am.
Ana fell asleep just after ten.
I’ve caught up on work, and now I’m poring over the notes that Mrs. Collier wrote to my mother and father while I was in her care. She has a neat and tidy hand, and her words spark small reminiscences that cast light into the dark corners of my memory.
Kristian won’t let me wash him, but he does know how to wash himself. It has taken two baths to get him clean and I’ve had to teach him how to wash his hair. He will not tolerate us touching him at all.
Kristian had a better day today. He still refuses to talk. We don’t know if he can or if he’s unable. He has a temper, though. The other kids are quite scared of him.
Kristian still doesn’t let any of us touch him. He has a meltdown if we do.
Kristian is hungry. He has a huge appetite for such a skinny little kid. His favorites are pasta and ice cream.
Our daughter, Phoebe, has taken a shine to Kristian. She dotes on him, and he’s tolerating her attention. She sits and draws with him. I don’t think he’s had a great deal of experience drawing.
Where Phoebe goes, Kristian will follow.
Today Kristian had a meltdown. He does not like to be parted from his blanket. But it’s filthy. I let him sit and watch it in the washing machine. This seemed to be the only thing that calmed him down.
The memories flare and flicker to the surface in fits and starts, but it’s the feeling of being overwhelmed that resonates most with me. I was in a strange place, with a strange family—it must have been horribly bewildering. No wonder I chose to forget that time. But, having read through the notes, I know I didn’t come to any harm there and I do remember Phoebe. She would sing to me. Silly songs. She was kind and especially sweet to me.
I’m grateful that my parents kept these letters. They remind me just how far removed I am from that frightened little boy. I am not him anymore. He no longer exists.
I contemplate sharing these with Ana, then remember her reaction to the photographs. Her sorrow as she gazed at that starved, neglected child. And they’d remind of her that asshole Hyde…and how much he and I have in common.
To hell with that.
She’s had enough to contend with over the last few days.
I tuck the letters, drawings, and the photographs into a manilla folder marked KRISTIAN and file them safely away in my filing cabinet for another day. Maybe when she’s fully recovered. Besides, I need to talk this through with Flynn, and I should do that before I share them with Ana. She’s my wife, not my therapist.
I lock the filing cabinet and check the time.
It’s late, and Ana is dozing when I slip into bed and pull her into my arms. She mumbles something unintelligible while I breathe in her soothing scent and close my eyes.
My dream catcher.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Ana is curled up beside me, still out for the count. It’s 7:16 a.m. I’m normally up earlier, but the last few days have taken a toll on me, too. It could also be the workout I did yesterday. Not only did I go for a run, but I did two circuits of the gym and an hour’s hard rowing. I smile at the ceiling while I contemplate going for another run this morning. I have all this excess energy.
Perhaps I should let Ana have her wicked way with me.
The thought is appealing.
Fuck.
Too appealing.
Taking a deep breath, I bring my wayward body to heel, grab my phone, and ease myself out of bed. Maybe I’ll come back when she’s awake. Right now, I’m hungry.
“Good morning, Mr. Grey.” Gail is in the kitchen; if she’s surprised that I’m still in my pajamas, she doesn’t give anything away. She moves straight to the Gaggia to make my coffee.
“Good morning, Mrs. Jones.”
“How’s Mrs. Grey this morning?”
“Still asleep.”
She nods with a satisfied smile. “What can I get you?”
“An omelet. Please.”
“Bacon, mushroom, and cheese?”
“Sounds great.” She slides over a cup of freshly brewed coffee.
I start leafing through The Seattle Times, glad that my wife isn’t on the front page, and wonder what Ana and I will do today, when I spot the real estate section.
Of course!
“Gail.” I get her attention once more. “Depending on how Ana’s feeling, I thought we might go out to the new house later. Could you rustle up a picnic for us?”
“It would be a pleasure, sir. I’ll ask Taylor to take it down to the R8 when it’s ready.”
“Thank you.”
I call Andrea to inform her I’m not coming into the office and ask her to reschedule any of today’s meetings. She’s unfazed. “Yes, Mr. Grey. How is Mrs. Grey?” she asks tentatively.
“Much improved. Thank you.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“I’ll be on my cell today, if you need me.”
My omelet is everything that I hoped it would be. I am happily eating when I look up. Ana has appeared in the doorway. She looks well rested; the bruise on her cheek has faded but she’s fully dressed, as if she’s going out somewhere. She’s wearing a skirt that borders on indecent—she’s all legs and high fuck-me heels. I lose my train of thought.
“Good morning, Mrs. Grey. Going somewhere?” I’m hoarse.
“Work.” She throws me a smile that illuminates the room.
I scoff at her audacity. “I don’t think so. Dr. Singh said a week off.”
“Christian, I’m not spending the day lounging in bed on my own.” She flashes me a quick, heated look, which I feel in all the right places. “So, I may as well go to work. Good morning, Gail.”
“Mrs. Grey.” Mrs. Jones flattens her lips, attempting to hide her amusement. “Would you like some breakfast?”
“Please.”