The wall around our patio is brick, a dusty red, with squares all in straight formation, lined up as if in a military procession, backs ramrod straight, eyes front, hearts and souls engaged. I think about finding a Sharpie and filling in the beige rows surrounding each brick with blue, with orange, with chartreuse. Coloring every line, the comforting satisfaction of a mindless, exacting task.
Coloring. Children hold crayons in sticky fists and scribble in coloring books. Kids use markers and draw happy stick figures. The children my wife has planned, Jonathon or Sally, Prentice or Amanda, Robert or Tina, join us. Invisible to the naked eye, still I feel their presence, holding hands, dancing, singing Ring Around the Rosy. Now they all fall down, and their tears streak her face. Her children are not going to color. Not now, not ever. Their names, scrawled in her adolescent diaries, are still emblazoned on her heart. She sits next to me, hand pressed against her flat belly, holding in the agony of acknowledgement. The final pronouncement, dusty ovaries, disconnected tubes.
Her loss reflects the brick, unyielding and unbreakable. My emotions are more layered, a fine, sedimentary shale. The foundation of my pain is softer, but set by years of witnessing her suffering. I have never fantasized images of fatherly bonds for myself, so I’m surprised to find the next emotional stratum contains some minor disappointment that fate has refused me progeny. But the weight that compresses the layers, solidifying them into immovable rock, is my constant guilt. It bears down on me, because I cannot completely deny my enormous relief at remaining childless. My selfishness, my sleep, and my stock portfolio will not be disturbed. Our marriage will survive only because I’ve become adept at hiding this from my love.
We both sip from long-stemmed crystal glasses. The wine is light and crisp and very cold. It hurts my teeth. She drains her glass and licks the rim as if ensuring every drop is accounted for. I offer her more, but she shakes her head. Lithe and limber as a gymnast, she kicks off her flip flops, grips the wall with both hands, and hops up. I watch as she walks along, a graceful dancer, back straight and tall like a soldier. Her toes are almost prehensile and, unexpectedly for someone so blonde, slightly touched by curly dark hair. As she reaches one end of the wall and pirouettes to return, I want to take each little piggy in my mouth and gently suck.
She jumps down, sticking the landing, and pours more wine. It glitters in the sunlight, sparkling diamonds of reassurance. I put my arm around her, bring her close. Her head, resting heavy on my shoulder, unleashes a torrent of encouragement. Ideas flow from my mouth unchecked: adoption, agencies, private attorneys, pregnant girls, China, Russia, South America, foster care, mentoring, many ways to be a parent. It’s a deluge of optimistic options, none of which I really want to try, but her pain becomes mine and outweighs my desires. Her longings reach into me and I feel them crush my ambivalence and relief, ending them forever. I realize I must do anything to make her whole.
I focus my entire being on her needs, and this decision finally frees me. I watch my anguish disintegrate into a clear and flowing stream. The silt and sediment of my guilt rushes past me; drawn by a strong current, it pours off my chest and out of my sight. I am suddenly weightless, open to possibilities, skimming along the surface of the water. This unbearable lightness triggers more words and I keep talking. We will have children, just not biologically. I will make it my mission to find a way. I promise you this. I promise you that. She moves away from me, hunched under the back-breaking burden of my words, hands fluttering like birds seeking safe harbor. Her smile is thin and worn, cracking at the edges. It shuts me up. I shake my head, and again, I pull her body next to mine. We huddle, searching for fresh direction, seeking comfort in the quiet.
Alice Benson lives in Wisconsin with her spouse and their two dogs. She discovered writing as a passion in the third act of her life and spends much of her time in pursuit of metaphors. Alice works in a human services field; previously she spent over thirteen years working with a domestic violence program. Her shorter published works have appeared in a Main Street Rag Anthology, Epiphany, Molotov Cocktail, Cliterature, English Kills Review, Scrutiny Literary Journal, Shooter Literary Magazine, Diverse Voices Quarterly and a variety of other publications. Both Alice’s books and many of her shorter works address intimate partner violence, abuse, and sexual assault. Alice’s first book, Her Life is Showing, set in a domestic violence shelter was published by Black Rose Writing in 2014. Alice’s second novel, A Year in Her Life, tackles many difficult social issues and will be published by Black Rose Writing in July 2019. For more information, visit Alice’s website www.alicebensonauthor.com