The Embers and the Sea

I can’t sleep.

The ceiling fan hums and chops the thick, hot midnight. Crackled static rises from the monitor on the nightstand. Sticky air holds the songs of crickets and cicadas. A shoulder, turned away, rises and falls with deep, heavy breaths. A shoulder, so cold, it turns our bed to ice.

I stand, an ache deep within my belly. I thought the pain would be gone by now. I tiptoe around the bed and quietly close the bedroom door, stepping in a warm puddle of water. I sigh; the flood.

I lean against the kitchen sink and close my eyes. Suddenly, it is noon, twelve hours earlier. I am wiping ash from the countertops. Flakes fall gently, slowly, all around, dancing on the eyelashes of my daughter, a pink polka dot dress in a pile of gray ashes on the floor. An eruption moments earlier – screams and fire. What was it for? I can’t remember. I remember the burning of my stomach, the fire rising in my throat, the flames flying from my lips, licking the air. The glass against the wall, the sad blue eyes of the man who chose me.

—-

Fire fills this house every day. I’ve swept and scrubbed and wiped and scraped, but there is always ash. Arms sore from washing, but always a gray paste everywhere, on everything, always. Blankets, bottles, toys that light up and with noises like knives in my ears. The sun fights its way through clouded windows. Everything a muted shade of color it once was.

After the fires, there are floods. First, tiny puddles from my daughter – scared. Then, rivers of shame, remorse, loneliness. Tears, so many tears – my husband fetches towels and the mop. He must do this to protect her (me?) from drowning. Each time, he cleans up, embraces me, whispers that I am okay. The floors and furniture are coated in a sticky, wet ash. Everything is ash and flood, but we float on.

“It’s the baby blues,” “The first few months are so hard,” “Babies change everything,” is what they say, what they all say.

—-

“She feels like water,” I’d say with a smile, gently stroking my swollen, itchy belly. Her movements smooth, constant, rolling. “She will be beautiful, like you,” he kisses my cheek.

We wanted this. We tried. We saw the specialists, injected the cool, clear liquid into my belly. Countless early morning appointments, countless needles. We chose this.

My legs are numb and I am mortified. They slice me open and take her out. She doesn’t cry. She is gray and scrunched. Taken to another room before I can see or hold her, he cuts the umbilical cord. I hear distant wails, finally, and try to breathe for the first time in an eternity. I am alone, waiting. Then, they return and lay her on my chest. I feel nothing.

“I fell in love the moment I saw her,” “All of the fear and pain go away when you see their little face and hold them for the first time,” “It’s a love unlike any other” is what they say, what they all say.

—

She screams and cries and won’t take the bottle. She won’t take a nap or play. She is bored with my attempts to entertain her. She won’t stop crying. The minutes are muddy and the hours are endless. We are alone, she and I, together, but each alone.

He comes home, holds her, feeds her, she sleeps.

“You’re so lucky to have such an involved husband,” “My baby only ever wanted me, never her father,” “What a great dad he is!” is what they say, what they all say.

—

The sad blue eyes stare into mine, searching for the woman he once knew. He turns away. He picks her up, holding her close to his chest, patting her back. He is whispering in her ear. I can almost feel his stubble on my cheek, his breath in my ear, his chest against mine, his arms holding up my broken frame. He is the tall lighthouse in the dark, the steady beacon of light in the middle of my sea.

But no. He is across the room, waves crashing around his feet, standing in my tide, embers still burning on his shoulders, searching my face, silently charting a new course.

He looks at me long, one last time, and sloshes through the sea to the door. I turn away, unable to watch him leave. His light fades as he moves farther away. I cannot bear to see the big brown eyes stare at me over his shoulder, crying and screaming into his ear as he closes the door behind him. I hear the car engine start, and its tires roll down the driveway.

They are gone. I am alone.

Waves lap at my ankles, heavy tears with words like fire kissing the air. When did I become only fire and water?

“Motherhood is hard,” “You’ll find yourself again,” is what they say, what they all say.

—-

I open my eyes and breathe in the thick midnight summer air. I catch my reflection in the kitchen window, shadowy and blurred. A misshapen belly, frizzy hair regrowing after falling out in clumps on the shower floor.

I walk up the stairs and silently sit next to the crib. I push my fingers through the rails and touch the tiny fingers. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. The little fingers wrap around mine and squeeze gently, not letting go. A quiet stream flows to the floor. I breathe deeply, biting my flame-burnt lip, soundlessly sobbing into the dark, scared of the little fingers letting go of mine, dropping me deep beneath the waves. Please don’t let me slip under my sea.

I awake, head leaning against the rails of the crib, little fingers still wrapped tightly around mine. The orange light of early summer morning leaks into the room. I stand, placing my hand on her porcelain face, lightly brushing her cheek flecked with tiny burns.

I walk downstairs, avoiding the puddles, nearly dry now. I quietly close the bedroom door and climb into bed. The crickets and cicadas have traded songs with the birds, and a light breeze flows through the window.

I put my hand on his shoulder – frozen. I move closer, pressing my body against his ice, a kiss from charred lips on his frosty neck. I fall asleep, body warm against the biting cold – eager to melt again into our once tranquil sea.