Our little cozy group descends into silence for a moment, and the only sounds are of the waves lapping lazily against the shore and the wood crackling in the bonfire.
Alex looks at me... spellbound. His gaze is a mixture of delight, surprise and fear.
After a while, Anna asks him, ‘Is she right, Alex? Is family really that important to you?’
He drags his eyes away from me with some difficulty and looks back at the fire, his gaze suddenly cold. Quietly, he says, ‘Yes.’
‘But you’ve never talked about it!’ exclaims Kristen, her tone of voice really an accusation. ‘If you’d only said something, then everything would be different!’
I don’t even want to think about what, exactly, would have been different.
‘Did I need to?’
‘Well, people usually talk about what’s important to them!’ Kristen finally removes her arm from around his neck and looks into his eyes, and I see, or rather I understand, that the ring on my husband’s finger means nothing to her. For the very first time, I realize the sheer size of the planet called ‘Alex and Women’, where marriage probably carries the same weight as a lone shout in a crowded stadium.
I suddenly realize that I have no defenses against them: not loyalty or devotion, not tenderness, not the joy of possessing one another, nothing. And I wonder: why did he even marry me? Why did he drag me into his life? Was it just gratitude because I was the only one who stayed by his side when he was ill? Or revenge for a broken heart years ago?
*** ‘Porcelain’ by Moby ***
A couple of weeks later, my children get influenza. Americans affectionately call it the ‘flu’, and this very ‘flu’ plays hardball with rookies, pushing them treacherously to the brink, where the sudden proximity of tragedy ignites fear and despair.
I am terrified for my asthmatic son and sleep with him in his room, but it’s my daughter who bears the brunt: her barking cough and fever, usually diagnosed by doctors as laryngitis, wakes us up at three in the morning with it’s frightening tenacity.
It’s not the severity of the respiratory disease that astounds me, however, but the way Alex handles it. In the dead of night, when everyone’s sleeping, he wakes me up with Sonia in his arms, struggling to breathe from all the coughing and her swollen larynx, and calmly but anxiously asks what he should do. After I tell him, he obediently does exactly what I’ve said, quickly wrapping her up and taking her out onto the terrace so that she can breathe more easily.
I run to heat up some milk, which should also help her, and when I go out to join them on the terrace, the scene before me pierces my heart: Alex is rocking Sonia on his lap, leaning over and kissing her hair with such all-consuming tenderness that tears spring to my eyes. He is singing something to her quietly, his voice filled with the love and affection of someone who cares, who will never abandon or betray her; someone who will never give up and will always be there to help. His broad shoulders and strong arms are like a cradle for my little daughter, his sexuality transformed into a safe, strong and tender refuge for my beautiful child. And I suddenly realize that all of us – me and my two children – are completely safe.
We’re in a fortress I now want to call home.
Before long, Sonia starts to feel better and I’ve never seen a recovery happen so quickly. Usually, her night-time bout of laryngitis lasts for at least two hours, but this time it is over in thirty minutes. I want to pick up my sleeping daughter to give Alex a chance to get some rest – the alarm on his smartphone will wake him up for his morning run in just a couple of hours and his long day will begin: a tiring day like every other, crowded with events, problems, challenging situations requiring his attention, and people – complex, demanding, inept, fallible people. I know how important it is for him to rest – he himself has only just recovered from a terrible illness that almost killed him – but Alex gestures that I shouldn’t worry, he’ll stay with Sonia for as long as she needs. I sit opposite them for a while on my favorite white settee and watch him hold her, watch him readjust her blanket and occasionally kiss her on the forehead, and I quietly fall asleep. When I wake, I’m under a huge warm blanket with Sonia sleeping peacefully next to me, safe and sound and looking almost healthy.
CHAPTER 6. Failed Expectations
*** ‘A Walk’ by Tucho ***
A week later – on a Saturday morning, to be precise – I go down to the kitchen with only one thought on my mind – to make myself some coffee. Alex is sitting over by the glass wall typing messages impossibly quickly on his laptop.
‘Morning,’ I greet him.
‘Morning,’ he replies softly.
I silently busy myself with the coffee and, like all those years ago back in Chișinău, I feel his eyes on my back. I turn around and he says quickly, ‘It’s supposed to be a beautiful sunny day today, no wind – perfect weather for a boat trip. Do you fancy going out on the yacht?’
‘With the children or without?’
‘Better without this time. We could plan a weekend with the kids another time.’
‘Why not?’ I accept his invitation, trying to calm my beating heart: he has finally plucked up the courage! He wants us to be alone because it will be easier for him to make the first move. I mean, we’ve been here before, right?
‘Excellent,’ he says, the smile in his voice almost audible.
The wind of change is definitely blowing our way. Maybe I should cancel the tickets? But there’s not a lot of point, because they’d probably fleece me for most of the money as a cancellation fee, anyway.
‘Be ready in an hour, then.’ His tone is unusually friendly, and my feet almost lift off the floor as I soar in blissful anticipation. But I don’t let on.
When I go down to the kitchen an hour later in jeans, a sleeveless top and a sweatshirt – it’s not actually that warm in April –Alex is already waiting for me. He’s wearing a silvery-blue blazer, stylish jeans and a t-shirt with a fancy print on the front. Looking at him, you’d never guess that he had been at death’s door just a few months ago.
‘Why are you all dressed up for a boat trip?’ I ask.
‘Well...,’ he says, looking confused. ‘This is how people usually dress for these things.’ My old jeans and sweatshirt have clearly baffled him.
Not fully understanding what he has planned, but boldly surmising that Alex intends to apologize for his behavior and officially ask for my hand in marriage – a little late, maybe, but better late than never – I head for the door to the garage.
‘Where are you going?’ he asks, looking puzzled.
‘What do you mean, where am I going? I’m going to the car!’