Bloodchild (13 page)

Dana was obsessed with the child and had little or no patience for anyone or anything else. He couldn't think of anyone who usually was more sensitive to the feelings of others, who was more compassionate and more willing to sacrifice so that other people, especially people she loved, were happier than Dana. Look at the way she had taken Colleen into their home and made her feel wanted, he thought.

And whenever her mother visited them, Dana was continually concerned that her mother feel comfortable and appreciated. The relationship between them had always been something special. Perhaps because Dana was older than most women when they got married, or perhaps because she had developed more wisdom and patience; whatever the reason, she never resented her mother or saw her as an interfering person. From what well of negative personality traits had she drawn these new feelings and reactions? he wondered. He couldn't believe that they were always there, latent, waiting. She had never shown any evidence of them before.

There was no one at home or anyone with whom he was close enough to confide some of the troublesome, intimate details, but he had hoped to spend a few private minutes with Dr. Friedman to ask him about the way Dana was acting toward him. Whenever they were alone now and he attempted to kiss Dana, she would pull away. Of course, it would be a while before they made love again. He understood that, but why should she be repulsed by his kisses and why should she reject his embrace? Did she somehow blame him for the death of their baby? Did she believe it was because of a weakness in his genes that the baby was born with an aneurysm? True, both his parents had died of illnesses, but still…

The previous night, before he'd fallen asleep, he had started talking to her warmly about some of the changes they would make in the house, some of the things they would do for Nikos, and for a few moments she seemed like the old Dana—warm, soft, patient. He kissed her shoulder and stroked her hair, but he sensed her cringing as he did so. Be more gentle, he thought. Go slowly. He talked some more; he complimented her looks, and then, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek, he grazed her breast with his forearm and she exploded in a rage, evincing a violent, ugly part of herself, a part he never knew existed. He couldn't remember her ever being so angry.

But it wasn't the anger so much as the expression of it in her face that remained with him, even invading his dreams. It was as though something else, some horrible creature, lived just below the surface of her skin. It twisted her face. The whites of her eyes reddened and her normally soft hazel pupils darkened into a cold, vivid green that reminded him of mold. Her lips contorted and puffed out, as if her teeth were enlarging. Of course, by this time, he recognized that his imagination was running away with itself, but it also looked to him as if her shoulders thickened as they rose. For a second or so he actually felt physically threatened.

"Don't touch me there!" she commanded. "Don't you know how sensitive I am?"

"I'm…'s-sorry," he said stuttering. "Is that normal? Are you all right?"

"Of course it's normal. Just don't touch me there." She glared at him a moment, and then her face calmed down because he nodded obediently. He lay back against the pillow and she went into a relaxed position too.

"Jeez, I hardly made contact," he said.

"It doesn't take much contact."

"How do you wear any clothing?"

"Don't worry about it. Let's go to sleep. I'm very tired," she added quickly.

"All right. As long as you're okay," he said. She didn't reply. He turned over and lay awake, thinking about her for a while, but then his own fatigue took control and he did fall asleep, driven deeply down into it by the vivid image of her face in rage.

Sleep was a form of retreat for him, just as immersing himself in this college contract dispute and the business of teaching had become an avenue down which he could flee from the trouble at home. He knew this and he felt somewhat guilty about it, especially about leaving it all in Jillian's hands. She was just as confused and upset as he was. He felt sorry for her, but at the moment he wasn't sure what course of action he should take.

Dana had gone ahead and made an appointment with a new doctor. She would see the physician without him, but perhaps even more importantly, whoever this doctor was, he didn't know her history. He didn't know what kind of a person she had been before. How could he judge the personality problems? How would he know how much of this was a result of postpartum blues and what, if anything, required treatment?

But he wasn't about to oppose her decision to see a new doctor. Perhaps he could see the physician afterwards by himself, and fill him in on some of this. He would get him to contact Dr. Friedman so he could get her medical history, he thought. Sure, that would help a great deal.

The simplicity of this solution made him feel better. Perhaps in time all the solutions would be this simple. Why shouldn't they be? He and Dana had always been so simpatico. Right from the beginning of their courtship they both had the sense that they were meant for each other, that if ever there was such a thing as two people being designed for each other, they were those two people.

He smiled at the memories. She had just come to work for Grant Kaplan's firm, the firm that handled his finances, when they met. Grant knew an uncle of hers who recommended her to him when Grant indicated he needed additional professional help. She had already given notice to the owner of the firm in which she was presently employed.

It was difficult for Harlan to believe that Dana never had been engaged or married before. She was so attractive, her warm, hazel eyes set in a cover-girl complexion. Whenever she moved around the offices, all eyes were on her. She had a grace and sleekness that radiated elegance. He loved the way she tossed her shoulder-length light brown hair behind her with the back of her hand and smiled at him. Was he on a movie set? Was he dreaming? This beautiful girl was within his reach, actually attracted to him.

He gathered from their early conversations that while she was getting her education and pursuing career objectives, she was determined to avoid any commitments that would complicate her life. She had such a firm grip on her emotions that she simply had them on hold until she was ready to come under their influence.

"At the time," she told him, "I thought I would rise faster and higher in the business world. You know what I mean. I saw myself as this sharp, efficient, corporate-executive type; but the first time a client asked me whether or not it would be efficient and intelligent to cut back on employees, I faltered. All I could think about was the misery being laid off would impose on the families of the employees. That was when I decided to relegate myself to the back room of the accounting office and fill out forms and pound adding machines. I would give the bottom line to someone else to do with what he or she may.

"It's a difference between a soldier on the front lines and an artillery man in the rear," she said, and he laughed.

"What kind of an analogy was that?" he asked.

"Don't you see… the soldier often sees the man he kills, but the artillery man, shoving shells into some cannon and then firing them into the air… it's like a game. It's impersonal and he can be aloof, unless he tours the area attacked."

"Oh."

Hey, he thought, this girl is far from shallow. She was well read, she appreciated his intellect, she wasn't pushy or demanding, and she didn't make him feel like a man with a limited future. She was as idealistic about his teaching as he was, seeing something creative about the stimulation of young minds. At last he had found a girl who wasn't self-centered, who wasn't Madonna's "Material Girl," who was no longer threatened by the prospect of someday being mainly a wife and mother.

At an age when he thought he was bordering on bachelorhood forever, he had met the girl of his dreams. He wasted no time proposing, and he would never forget the way she accepted.

"Why, Harlan," she said, "you proposed to me the first time you set eyes on me. It was written all over your face."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh. And although you couldn't see it then, I had already accepted. In fact, I was wondering why it was taking so long for a literature professor to put it into words."

He laughed at the recollection. The tears came into his eyes as he recalled the pride in his father's face when Harlan and Dana came to him and announced their engagement. Colleen was only eleven then, and it had been a while since there was another woman in her family. Dana sensed her anxiety immediately and immediately won her over. Right from the start the two of them were close.

Then came their attempts to have children and their years of failure until finally Dana became pregnant. He recalled the day they received the positive news, and their dinner of celebration. Maybe because it had been so difficult for her to get pregnant was why she'd become so obsessed with doing all the right things. And now this breast feeding… Whatever the reason, she was certainly determined that all would go well.

Now that he thought about it fully, the intensity surrounding her pregnancy, and then its tragic finale, it was no wonder her personality had undergone such a radical change. He would have to continue to understand, and he would have to get Jillian and Colleen to do the same.

We've got to give her time
, he thought.
We've got to ease her back into herself
. He had been thinking he would talk to some of his closer friends on the faculty and see if any of them had undergone such psychological conflict after their wives had given birth, but now he decided against even that. He was sure none of them had gone through events in any way similar to the ones he and Dana had just gone through. They couldn't understand. There was no point in discussing this with any of them. They couldn't give him any advice.

For the time being, he would put it out of mind. He would immerse himself in the contract conflict and take advantage of that avenue of escape. Things will be all right, he told himself. He was always more comfortable with, and more willing to accept, blind optimism, anyway.

It might be a fault of mine
, he thought,
but it's a good fault. It keeps me happy, and that keeps the people around and close to me happy. What's wrong with that
?

He could see his mother's face, the way she shook her head and pressed her lips together, and then he heard her answer.

"Mr. Ostrich. Just like your father," she said. "Go around with your head buried in the sand. But just remember," she added, nodding, "you can't keep it there forever."

He smiled at the memory and the wisdom, but he was unable to take heed.

"A good fault, a happy fault," he mumbled, and continued on toward the college, the night pressing behind and around him, a man oblivious to the fact that he was driving deeper and deeper into the darkness.

Jillian jumped at the sound of the doorbell; she was that much on edge. She rose out of the easy chair like a woman ten years her elder. These changes in Dana and the subsequent angst that had found a home within her had already had a significant effect on her physically. Rarely, if ever, did she feel her age. Her contemporaries usually depressed her with their talk of aches and pains. Their medicine cabinets were literally mini-drugstores. Most often she found herself associating with younger women. She had more in common with them. She certainly had as much energy and as much desire for activity.

Perhaps it was only a mental attitude, but it was effective. She thought young, and so she remained young. But something new and even a bit frightening was happening to her here. When she had first entered her daughter's home this time, it was as if she had crossed into another world, a world in which hours were like minutes, days like hours. She felt she had aged years. Suddenly there were aches in her shoulders and her hips. Suddenly wrinkles on her face were more pronounced. Most importantly, that rapport she had always had with Dana, a rapport that got its strength from her youthful viewpoint, was gone. It had slipped through her fingers almost before she had realized it was happening. She felt like someone who had tried to hold water in her fist.

She had had problems before. Life was hardly one smooth ride. She had even experienced a great tragedy, losing Brad in that freakish boating accident just when the two of them were beginning to enjoy their retirement. It had been as if they had begun new lives and were just rediscovering each other. Contrary to what most people might think, Brad at sixty-nine, and she at sixty-three, were quite romantic. They were in the midst of renewing their vows of love, and then suddenly, from out of nowhere, death slipped in between them and ended it.

It was cruel and it was hard to accept because at their age they were always preparing themselves for medical disasters—physical examinations that would result in dreadful news. People their age developed cancer or heart trouble. There was supposed to be trouble with cataracts, enlarged prostates, arthritis. Like the rest of America, they anticipated ending their lives with long hospital stays. They were readying themselves to be at each other's sides when and if their bodies succumbed to the ailments of time.

But instead, one afternoon, Brad was struck in the head by a swinging sail on a fishing boat and died instantly. She comforted herself by telling herself he would rather have died in such a way than to struggle with medications and procedures in some hospital. It was almost as if he died in battle, rather than withering away.

Somewhat stoic, hardened by the scars, she rose out of the tragedy and became stronger, more independent. She was determined that the unfortunate set of events wasn't going to end both their lives. That was something Brad would have hated to see happen. She told herself she had to go on for both of them now. Every bit of pleasure she garnered from Dana, she had to enjoy doubly. It became not only a duty to herself, but also to the memory of her dearly departed husband that she maintain her health and her vitality and go on for the both of them.