Page 84 of Almost Paradise

“Okay. I’ll table it for now.”

I reach toward my lamp table and grab her champagne flute. We sti up, clink and sip, but there’s so much I want to say. So much I want to ask her about the past four years, but this weekend is not the time. For now, we’ll be a happily married couple who’s enjoying a child-free weekend.

“You should be talking about what you’re making me for dinner tonight,” she says.

“Whatever you want,” I whisper. “All you have to do is tell me, and it’s yours.” Her head snaps up. She knows I’m not talking about dinner. She swallows but quickly looks away while she sips her champagne.

“How about you give me some more of that dick?” She finishes her drink and plants her full lips on mine. I put my glass away, wrap my arms around her, and put her on her back.

“I thought you’d never ask.” I toss the sheet aside, lift her leg and slide inside of her.

After plating spaghetti Bolognese and grating parmesan cheese on top, I go to the bottom of the stairs and call for Nia. When she doesn’t come down or respond, I take the stairs two at a time to find her.

This weekend has been the best weekend of my life since we separated. This is how I remember her. This is how we spent our time together. Talking, loving, or being carefree. Well, she was carefree. I had obligations weighing down on me, but she made it bearable.

I check the master bedroom first when I get upstairs, but she’s not there. The light in the guestroom is on, so I walk inside. I don’t see her, but I hear her moving around in the walk-in closet.

“Hey,” I say to her. I must surprise her because she drops something, and it lands on the carpet with a thud. I bend to pick it up for her, and it’s a photo album. I open it, and it’s a picture of Nia. I know it’s from around the time we were together from the haircut.

She tries to take the album from me, but I give her my back and look. She’s smiling at the camera, but her eyes are sad and vacant. The smile is forced. She has her shirt up. At the top of the page is written ‘twelve weeks pregnant.’ I flip the page and it’s the same pose, but at thirteen weeks. Each picture is of her in the same outfit, showing her every week of the pregnancy.

She looks more beautiful in each one, especially the ones where her cheeks are fuller and her belly rounder. But despite the smiles, she looks unhappy.

She doesn’t try and take the album from me anymore. She stands there while I look through every picture and try to memorize every moment. This is the closest I’ll ever get to being there while she carried our son, and that’s thanks to my father. I stuff that thought aside for now. If I think about it, I might break something.

She’s huge in the last picture. She still has the same sad smile. I trace my hand over the picture as if I can touch her in real time. I slam the album shut and put it on the shelf in the closet, knowing full well I’m coming back here tonight after she falls asleep to look at it again. I’m going to take pictures with my phone so I can look at them whenever I want.

I face her and open my arms. I’m relieved when she walks in, and I wrap them around her. I hold her for several minutes with neither one of us saying a word. I rub her back and hold her close.

I can apologize again, but I don’t think that’s what she needs to hear right now, and that’s only to make me feel better. Sure, I was hurt by the breakup, but she’s the one who had to bear all the consequences. She went through a pregnancy thinking I had only used her. She had to go through labor without me by her side cheering her on. Despite all the help she had from her family, she was a single mother, something I’m positive she never aspired to be. I got to live my life. I got to pretend that I was the victim when all the while, I had no idea.

“When you’re ready, I want to hear about those months leading up to Carter’s birth. I want to know every detail, but only when you’re ready to share them with me.” I look down at her. When she looks up, I cup her cheeks and stare into her eyes. There’s so much I want to say to her, but I agreed to a weekend free of the past, so I’m not going back on my word.

“I was looking for a shirt. I forgot I had stuffed that album in there,” she says, seemingly embarrassed. I don’t say anything while I wait to see if she will say more. “The pictures were my mom’s idea. She said I’d thank her later. She did the same thing when she was pregnant with me and Ray.”

When she doesn’t offer any more explanation, I say, “You look so sad, baby girl. That’s not like you.”

“Iwassad,” she confesses. “Finding out I was pregnant rocked my world. It was the last thing I expected or wanted. I’ll be honest, I didn’t think I was ready to be a mom, and then having to do it all without you really hurt. I was so mad at myself for misjudging you and for thinking you cared about me. Then you walked away, and I was left to deal with the consequences while you got to live your life. I started to feel bitter and resentful.”

I close my eyes and let the words sink in. As hurt and angry as I was, that was nothing compared to her. “Baby girl, please believe me when I tell you that had I known, nothing would have stopped me from being with you, and we would have been a family from the beginning. You weren’t wrong about me. Everything I said and did was real.”

She doesn’t answer, and I take that as a win. A few weeks ago, she would have called me a liar and told me to go to hell.

“I have more albums if you want to see them. My mom insisted on documenting everything. There’s video too,” she says.

“Nothing would make me happier,” I tell her. She moves out of my arms and pulls out a tote bag she had stashed in the back of the closet. She grabs another album, and I take her hand and lead her back downstairs to dinner. Instead of sitting at the table, we sit at the island and put the photo album between us. This one has candid shots of her. There’s less sadness in her eyes. In a few, she looks happy.

“You were the most beautiful pregnant woman,” I tell her.

She playfully punches my arm. “No, I was not. I waddled like a duck,” she says. When I look at her confused, she jumps off her seat and goes to the living room. She returns with a pillow and stuffs it under her sweater. “My center of gravity was off. I looked like this.” She thrusts forward. “And I walked like this.” She walks around the kitchen as if she has something between her legs. “I’d get cramps in my legs at night and low back pain. That’s nothing compared to the night sweats. I’d have to lay out three or four T-shirts to change into throughout the night. By the time I was in the last month, I could barely walk a city block without getting tired.” She punches me again, harder this time. “I put a hex on you and your entire family for the next ten generations. I cursed you daily. My mom says that’s why Carter looks so much like you.”

I pretend to rub my arm. “So, you put a hex on yourself and Carter?” She tries to pinch me, but I pull her onto my lap while we pour over the album. There are shots of her baby shower. It looks like she had it at her old house.

There are pictures of her at the hospital and several taken right after Carter was born. Nia is crying in several of them. She looks exhausted, but so damn beautiful.

“What was the birth like?” I ask. I’d give everything I own to be able to go back in time and be there for her. To cheer and offer encouragement when she needed it.

“It was hard. I was on partial bedrest the last two weeks because my blood pressure was high. My water broke in the middle of the night, and my parents drove me to the hospital. Audrey showed up a few hours later, and she and my mom were there when Carter came out. I was in labor for about sixteen hours. Carter weighed eight pounds, five ounces, and pushing him out hurt like a bitch.”

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