THIS Is Me... (34 page)

  Nodding, Z seems to pause after my confession.  Looking at his eyes, Z looks so sad to me.  God, this hurts.
  “Would we be together if you hadn't been pregnant, Suzanne?  I know that's a tough question to answer, but I think about it all the time.  Do you think we would have made it?” he whispers.
  Whispering in return, “I don't know.  I would have tried very hard to be with you, but my very hard is everyone else's easy.  I probably would have screwed up, or gone nuts, or did something wrong eventually, and you and I would have had to struggle and struggle until you were just too tired to struggle for us anymore.  That's what I think, though I wish it wasn't the case.”

  When he nods again, I continue.
  “Z, you’ve become a fantasy to me.  You are the novel lover.  But I think I've built you up too high to not fail in a relationship with you.  I think you are just too big for me in this awful little life of mine.”

  Oh, god... THIS is our final break-up speech and it's ripping me apart.

  Has anything ever hurt me like this before?  Has there ever been a greater pain in my life?  I can feel nothing but this intense agony as I look into his sad eyes.  He’s finally going to leave me alone, and I’m going to feel only this agony, forever.
  “If you had known he wouldn't survive- if you had known you wouldn't have to be a mother in the end, would you have wanted to stay with me?  Would you have loved me enough to not push me away again?” 
  What do I say?  The truth?  Do I tell him what a selfish bitch I am?  Do I tell him how crazy I am?  What do I tell him?
  “Suzanne...?” he asks moving closer to me.
  “I don't know for sure, but I think probably I would have.  I wanted you so badly, but I didn't want a child so badly.  But I think if I had known this horrible ending would happen, I would have selfishly stayed with you and waited it out.  And I'm embarrassed to admit to such a selfish thing.  But yes, I would have done anything to have stayed with you then.  And I'm really sorry for being like that, but I think it's true.”
  When I feel him nod against my hair, I stay quiet.  One massive, disgusting confession is enough for today, I think.  Plus, how much worse could I possibly paint myself to Z?  It's not like I have a great track record with rational, intelligent choices that he's ever seen before.  God, I'm disgusting.
 

  Breaking the heaviness of our silence he asks, “Would you come with me to the funeral?  I would really like you to be there.  You are my son's mother, Suzanne.  And even if you didn't want to be- To me, you will always be his mother.”
  “If that's what you want Z.”
  “It is.  I want you with me when I bury him, if that's alright with you.”
  “Okay.  I just have to change, and I'll put my make-up on in the car.”  Dammit.  This is going to be hard.  Z looks so broken, and I can't help him with this at all.
  “Thank you,” he whispers.  Exhaling, I nod my consent as I try to get out of bed.
  Helping me, Z is so slow and gentle, and though my insides are screaming in pain I feel very strong suddenly.  I can't believe how much my skin and body- my brain and emotions have had to endure these last 8 months.  And yet my sanity seems so strong right now.  What a weird, tragic way to become sane. 
  Walking beside me to my closet, Z turns on the light inside and just pauses.
  “Well, you certainly have the funeral attire down.  Any preference?” he grins.  What?!
  Laughing, I look at my rows and rows of black.  Stacks of black sweaters on top of rows of black slacks, turned to black capris, turned to black skirts, followed by black dresses, and finally a full side row filled with black blouses and shirts.  Around 3 full walls, my closet screams for help.
  Grinning, “You should see my shoe closet.”
  Turning toward me, Z wraps his arms around me, kisses my forehead and hugs me.  Not too tightly but completely.  I am engulfed by him, and I'm okay with this moment between us.
  After forever, Z turns, grabs the clothes I point out and helps me dress in my bedroom. 

  Never acknowledging my gross leg, or my scarred face, or my hugely swollen stomach, Z sees everything as he helps me dress.  Strangely, I'm never uncomfortable or embarrassed, and I never feel the familiar need to cover up or flee from him though.  I think the circumstance of this intimacy doesn't allow for simple feelings of insecurity or modesty between us.
  Eventually, he takes my hand in his and leads me to the living room.
  “How did you get in?”
  “I took Mack's key and told him that I was coming for you.  I told him that this was finally just between me and you.”
  Taking my coat, he continues dressing me while I stay silent.  I don't want to ruin this moment for him by being all Suzanne-like. 
  Sometimes, my silence is the best gift I can give someone.  Sometimes, my silence prevents the stupidity, the crazy, and the sadness from crushing someone else.  And so my silence is my gift to Z on the day he buries his son.

  When we get to his car I whisper, “What did you really name him?”
  “Thomas,” he chokes.  Oh!
  “My name...” I gasp.  “How did you know?”  Oh. My. God.  Now I'm crying.  Dammit.
  “Suzanne, I know everything about you.  I know when you hurt and I know when you need a moment.  I see everything, love.”
  Suddenly sobbing, I can do nothing but stare at him.  This man is just too much.  He is so much greater than me.  He is so much greater than I'll ever be.
  “Thank you...” I finally cry in the dark silence between us.
  Smiling, Z leans in and kisses me softly on the lips before we drive away.

                                                 *****
 

  Walking back into my apartment I am absolutely exhausted.  Keeping everything together throughout the funeral was hard, but I did it.  For Z; I stood quietly beside him while a priest laid his son to rest.
  With so many people in attendance, I was horribly insecure and uncomfortable but I didn't ‘Suzanne’ the funeral in the slightest.  I nodded and smiled, and shook hands and accepted stranger's condolences gracefully.  I acknowledged the few people I knew, and stood stoically strong beside Z while he mourned the little boy that left him.

  The Kaylas both stood beside and behind me, but neither talked to me much.  I think they could tell I was fighting my emotions.  I’m sure Kayla could read my silence as the only thing keeping me together.  I’m sure she knew any attempt to comfort would set me off, and so my dearest Kayla stood beside me, shoulder to shoulder without speaking a single word to me, while other Kayla stood strong behind me.

  And yes I was emotional.  I mean, I'm not a monster.  But again, almost all my emotion was for Z and Thomas, not for myself.  Hearing Thomas’ name said with affection and lost potential was devastating.  And seeing Z struggle to keep it together was so hard to watch, but I didn't make it about me at all.  I didn't weep and wail, or try to make this pain my own.  I was totally strong for Z.

  Even when I saw Z's best friend Marty walk directly up to him, taking him into a tight embrace while talking quietly to Z, I stayed strong.  When Mack joined Marty and Z, I watched as the three men spoke quietly to each other with their heads bent and with a great sadness and loss between them. 
  Three strong beautiful men stood together as best friends, as they each felt this pain and sorrow together.  It was actually an amazingly touching moment to watch.  It was beautiful, really.  And it was a moment I will never forget for the rest of my days.
 

                                                 *****

  Heading for my bedroom to change, I want to sleep so badly I can barely walk.  Actually, there is nothing more I want than to sleep away Z's sadness. 
  After the funeral, I convinced Z, Mack, and the Kaylas that I was fine to be alone.  I insisted that they should carry on without me to the little lunch Z provided for the guests.  And though I could tell no one believed me, I was so strong and unemotional, eventually they gave in and Mack had a car drop me off at home.

  So here I am.  Standing in my on suite bathroom running the shower, while desperately trying to block out Z's sadness by looking at my grossness again. 
  Christ!  You would think I'd be used to the scars on my face, which though significantly better are still horribly obvious.  You'd think I wouldn't care about my scarred throat and neck, or about the chunk of thigh that seems to be missing because of the angle of the damage.  You'd think I'd be used to all this ugly by now.  And though I don't cringe and cry, or obsessively touch the texture of scars any longer, I'm still not quite over all this ugly.  Then again, I don't think I'll ever be.
  Stepping into the hot shower, my muscles finally relax.  Sitting on the shower bench I finally exhale.  God, this day has been the longest day of my life.  This has been the hardest day yet for me. This is the day I wish to erase from my memory forever.
  Seeing the little monument and seeing his little name and the date of his death was just so
sad.
  I don’t even think there’s another word for it.  Yes, seeing Z's upset was horrible but the little casket and monument was so devastating I barely held on.  God, I don't know how Z kept it together throughout.
  I really don't know how he stood there without tears, talking and shaking hands with countless people while the little casket was so close to him. 

  I don't know how he pulled off a funeral with such short notice for a baby he was never allowed to love.  I don't understand why so many people even came to a funeral for his little baby boy who never really was.  It was just so
sad.

  As the exhaustion and heat creep into my bones, I feel myself starting to cry.  I feel myself letting go of the many months of fear and depression I had.  I feel myself letting go of all the potential Z thought he had.  I feel myself crying for all the potential Z may have had with his son but sadly lost.
  For me, this is the greatest tragedy of all.  The baby is gone, and Z is broken, and I am still Suzanne- fucking- Anderson.  And though another version of myself, stronger and more sane, I am still me.  Always.

  Crying harder, I just let myself go because there’s nothing else I can do. 

  The script I wanted to write by my own hand is once again not my own.  I didn't write this death and I didn't write these awful pages of my life.  I never wanted this movie to turn out like this. 
  God, I don't want to be in this movie anymore.  Life-long contract or not, I don’t want to have this life anymore.  There is just too much pain, always.
  Leaning against the corner tiles, I think of Thomas' little life which is buried beneath a little monument.  I picture the little monument from his daddy, and realize his only legacy on this earth is the heavy stone weighing him down.

  Oh,
god…

                                
Thomas Zinfandel
                       “You were held just once,

                     But you will be loved forever.”
                               -October 18th, 2012-

  Saying goodbye, I weep for his little life lost.

                                 CHAPTER 37

  “Suzanne... Wake up, love.”  Huh?  Oh, shit!
  “I'm fine!  I wasn't freaking out, I swear!  Why are you here?!” Okay,
that
sounded freaked out.  Dammit.
  “I needed to see you, and I wanted to make sure you were alright.”
  “Oh.  Um...”
  “I don't think you're supposed to have your stitches so wet, and I don't think you're actually supposed to sleep propped up in a shower,” he grins.
  “I know but I was just so tired.  I'll get out now.” 
  Trying to stand, my left leg is all wonky from being still for too long, but Z reaches for me and steadies me as I stand.  Looking at him, I'm surprised again that I don't feel nakedly gross by
my
gross nakedness.
  “How can you stand to look at my body, Z?” I whisper without eye intact.
  “I can't stand it.”  OH!  “Suzanne, breathe.  I can't stand to see the scars you have, or the damage from the accident.  And I can't stand to see the scar across your abdomen, or the swelling you still have to carry from my baby.  But I don't see the scars as you see them.  It's more of a dislike for the
actual
scars, not for your body.  Honestly Suzanne, I feel such affection for you I don't think there's anything that could make me not love looking at your body.  Even ravaged and damaged as it is.”
  “Oh.”  Exhale.
  “I see you different than you see yourself- I always have.  You are Suzanne to me, just as you are.  You are not the scarred version of Suzanne that you see.  Does that make more sense?” 

  Z says all these lovely words to me as he helps me from the shower and wraps me in a towel.
  “Do you need help bandaging your stomach?”
  “No, I can do it.”
  “I don't mind.  I'd like to help you.”
  Suddenly the exhaustion weighing on me is so great, I can only nod my head yes.
  Lifting me gently onto the countertop, Z looks around for the supplies needed by the sink but suddenly drops to his knees in front of me.  Jesus! 

  Placing his hands on my hips, he kisses my huge, ugly, distended belly once through the towel then turns and rests his head against me.  Holding me tighter, he inches my legs open wide for his body.
  God, I don't know what to do.  I don't know what to say.  I have nothing to give him in this moment.  So raising my hand, I slide my fingers through his hair as he moans a little cry against me. 
  Touching Z for the first time in forever is so anticlimactic, I'm surprised by the calm of the gesture.  I have wanted to touch him always, but I couldn't.  And now it seems I
can
touch him and I just feel so sad for all the lost opportunity and tragedy between us.
  “I'm sorry I didn't want the baby, Z.  But it was NEVER you.  I
always
wanted you.  I just didn't want a baby.  And I know you can't understand the difference, but to me there IS a difference.”
  “Tell me, Suzanne.  Make me understand,” he begs while lifting his eyes to me.
  “Um...”