“I have this strange feeling that I’m not myself anymore. It’s hard to put it into words, but I guess it’s like I was fast asleep, and someone came, disassembled me, and hurriedly put me back together again. That sort of feeling.”
I looked at her, willing the force of my stare to decipher this complex puzzle, willing my questions to unravel her very tightly wounded being. Her eyes met mine and her tired smile did not reach them.
“Haruki Murakami,” she revealed the author’s name.
She spoke, often, in quotes. As if her own words were so precious, they weren’t to be heard by others, but locked inside her mind. Sometimes when she was thinking, and I looked at her and she didn’t notice, I could almost hear her contemplations colliding with one another.
Once I had asked her, if people were not worthy of her words. She answered me in riddles, saying her words were not worthy of people.
She was a captivation, the web of a spider and I was right smack in the middle, stuck. Trouble was that this web was abandoned, high up in the untouched corner of an old, old house.
She ran. She ran until her lungs burst with the need for air and her sides ached. She ran from nothing and everything.
She said nothing but I saw it all over her face when she tumbled to the ground, cushioned by the grass that stained her clothes as she fell. Her scrunched up nose, the hard line of her twisted mouth and her squeezed shut eyes, they told me of a will that lived inside of her. A will stronger than the rest of the rest, it was the will to fall beyond the surface of the Earth.
And I was appalled. But my right foot, on its own accord, took a step forward instead of backwards. This realization of the darkness she was in, of the darkness she held did no good to free me.
I walked to her instead. I sat down next to where she laid with her face to the sky, her arms spread, her chest completely still with the need for oxygen that she refused to allow herself to inhale, and I gave her a nudge.
With an almighty gasp, her breath was resumed with a gulp of air. Her nails dug into the ground and she clenched her eyelids as her chest began to heave and her mouth opened to the breaths she took.
“Why?”I asked her.
And “Why not?” was her reply, with her eyes now calmly closed and her fingers relaxed. Sleep claimed her.
Her laugh was a gurgling sound at the back of her throat. The sound was infectious. One hand flew to her mouth and covered it half-heartedly, failing to do so as she rocked a little. Her nose wrinkled in an adorable manner, the way it did in these rare moments where she laughed.
But I did not find her amusement amusing.
I was on one knee, holding her left hand in my right and a jewelry box open in my left. My lips twitched and I shot her a glare. I hardly showed disdain when it came to her but she did not seem put out. In fact, it fueled her laughter.
When her laughter subsided and I still had not gotten up, she looked down at me, at first with confusion, followed by a look of anger and then she was serious, and quiet. She adopted her look of contemplation again, and I heard the thoughts colliding.
“Why?” she asked.
And “Why not?” was my reply.
“She’s out cold – and – I think she’s –” a friend panted as she struggled to keep up with me.
I threw open the door and found her, beautiful in her white gown, pale like the ice queen she was. I felt the heat from the heavy run to arrive leave me immediately. And all I could think to myself was not today.
My feet like they always did, attached to invisible strings that were bound to the woman I was about to marry, brought me closer to her. I dropped to my knees when I reached her, and my hands found hers. My heart thudded heavily when I felt the cold.
“Baby, I –” I stuttered over words, as my fingers numb from agitation moved to her neck to try to find her pulse.
As soon as my cold fingertips grazed the skin of her neck, however, her eyes fluttered open. It took her a moment for coherence to return to her. And then she smiled the most heartbreaking smile, and she opened her mouth.
I leaned in and she whispered into my ear, “I don’t think I can do this.”
I gulped. “What labels me, negates me,” I quoted in a hushed tone.
Her eyes flickered wider. She was astounded, I could see. And then there was something close to comprehension, and I could’ve sworn it left a light.
“All these things you do for me!” she shrieked.
I rubbed my knuckles into the sides of my face and allowed my weary eyes to close. I knew what I signed up for. I was not so naïve as to forever think I was a measly insect trapped in a spider’s web. I had bigger roles to play and responsibilities to carry. I had an old, old house full of webs to take care of.
“Look at me!” she screeched, and at that moment, something hit me across the face.
I was incredibly grateful it was light and fluffy. But I grabbed the arms of the force behind the pillow and I pulled her to me. She struggled and I tightened my grip. I saw her open her mouth to continue her tyrant; I gave her a smile, and though it was wry, I hoped it was enough.
She paused. And then she began to cry.
I pulled her into my arms, onto my lap and I soothed her. “It’s just the pregnancy hormones,” I lied.
“Post-mortem depression?” I muttered.
She laughed. It was no longer a gurgling sound behind her throat. It was loud and it was even more infectious than it had been before. She held back no emotions anymore.
“My baby!” she cooed to the pink bundle in her arms. She pulled aside a bit of fabric to reveal a baby girl with my hair and her eyes, pink cheeks and dimples.
She heard me a moment later and threw me a dirty look. “I’m a mother now.”
As if that was all the explanation there was to it. Maybe that was it. It was the glow of being a mother, the fulfillment of it. There was life.
Sometimes, I wondered if maybe I wasn’t enough love for her, because I couldn’t grant her immediate happiness like that, from the very moment she held the baby in her arms, then I remembered the baby was our baby girl and I loved her as much as her mother.
She danced because she wanted our daughter to dance. She sang because she wanted our daughter to hear it. She learned how to cook because she wanted our daughter to eat well. She took up photography because she wanted to document our daughter’s life. She laughed because she wanted our daughter to laugh too.
Sometimes, I wondered if that were enough. But I realized, slowly, she began to do those things because she wanted to.
