Copywrite 2000 * by Elizabeth Delayne
"I'm getting really tired of being accused of sticking around as if that's the wrong thing to do."
Abby Carmichael glared across the room at her husband as they both squared off for another round, "You're just too close."
He didn't understand. Or is it that he did and she didn't want him to? She looked at the man she'd married, with moderately short blond hair and clear blue eyes. His smile was subtle, except when he laughed. She'd fallen in love with him so quickly—and she loved him so much more, even now . . . but it wasn't his love she was afraid of.
"You're always hovering around as if you're expecting me to flip off to the loony bin."
"What do you mean, hovering? I walked in the room. We said a vow that stated that I could lived here too."
Abby knew it was ridiculous. She felt ridiculous, but she was unsettled and feeling irrational and so far down in a dark black hole that it was hard to see out at times. And she was always scared. So scared.
She looked at Ray, and all that she could think of was that he was angry and he was never angry. He was the most beautiful person in her world and she was pushing him away. He could very well get so angry that he would leave.
She took a deep breath, hoping it would be calming, but instead it sounded shaky and the change it worry in her eyes only made her feel worse. They'd been avoiding each other all night, every night, for the past two weeks, sitting across the living room as if they were strangers at a bus stop, "Look, I just needed some quiet time. Alone."
"To sit around a brood."
"I was thinking," she snapped.
"Semantics. You were brooding."
"Thinking," she corrected, stubbornly, "trying to figure things out."
"You've been doing that for two months now," and in that moment the anger faded and he reached for her, clasping her forearms gently, then slowly letting his hands glide down her arms to rest at her fingers. He interlaced his hand with hers and drew her fractionally closer. It was the same thing he'd done the first night they'd gone out, the first night they'd stopped dancing around the attraction they'd felt for each other.
She couldn't take it. She couldn't take the sympathy or the fact that he had always been able to read her so easily. She wasn't sure she wanted to be read now. Not when she didn't understand what was going on.
"Just don't touch me," she panicked, jerking from him, sorry for the hurt that flashed in his eyes, "I can't take you touching me now."
Ray frowned as the door slammed and took comfort that he'd had the wisdom to pick up her keys before coming in for this confrontation. She'd run two weeks ago after another angry argument, the first big one, had barely skimmed over the surface of anger and fear she was holding onto.
He slipped his hand into his pocket and ran his hand over the smooth metal and felt helpless. He'd never known that loving someone could be like this, cutting and healing at the same time.
"I'm calling in my ace, Abby," he whispered, dropping to his knees before the old stuffed recliner his parents had donated to him and Abby when they got married. He'd seen his father down, like this, so many times growing up.
He'd prayed all day at work, knowing that it was time for a confrontation. His ace Abby had given him herself, before they were married. It was a deal-which she'd meant mostly for him, he supposed. He'd anticipated a battle.
Abby had been one of three children dragged through a painful divorce, with parents who didn't talk, who'd pride had grown larger then their respect. She'd seen her mother wither, not knowing how to express herself, and watched her father slip emotionally away because of the same problem.
So Ray had promised, as had she, that if there came a point in their relationship that one person felt unable to reach the other, that the offended person, this time being him, could say that they needed counseling, together.
So he prayed now. Something was wrong. Something was putting fear in her eyes. And he wasn't about to loose her.
*****
Abby was furious and crying. Bethany had seen it before. With Abby and Ray, and before between her mom and dad.
Marriage sucked. Boys were the problem.
She let the door slam when she walked in the house. She was ready for a fight. Her on again, off again, most of the time, best friend Kevin, had refused to give her the pleasure of a knock down, drag out fight.
Then there was Abby—aloof, afraid, and crying. Bethany didn't know how to help her older sister, but she knew who needed the blame.
Ray appeared from the den and Bethany smiled, an angry, wolfish smile. The look on his face was overtly dismayed when he saw it was her.
"Don't look so happy to see me."
"I thought you were Abby."
"Abby's crying," she watched as he took the length of the floor between the archway and door in long, determined strides, "and you're a jerk."
Ray stopped and glanced wearily at her. She was Abby's sister, he reminded himself, and in the same turmoil that her sister was in . . . or so he thought. He didn't know anything anymore.
Abby and Bethany lost their mother two months ago and now, for better or worse, Bethany was living with them. She still had to finish her senior year of high school. Their older brother, Tim, was in Germany.
There was anger flashing in her brown eyes, darker then Abby's, but the emotion was as heated and as rich as her sister's.
She jabbed her finger at him, into his chest, "You all are," she spat. "You walk all over us, while you deter us into believing in you, trusting in you, but you don't care! Then you laugh because you've got someone fawning all over you, worshiping you and pretending to hold onto every useless word you say."
Tears sprung to her eyes and shamed her. "You never care! None of you do and then we make plans, buys dresses and spend money on expensive proms and weddings and it just doesn't matter. None of it matters anymore."
Ray watched Bethany run away, her long legs taking her up the stairs two steps at a time, and realizing it was open, slowly forced his mouth closed. He glanced to the door where his wife waited, fumed, then for the stairs. He wanted to go to Abby, but he wasn't certain he could do any good until she calmed down.
He looked across the room to the mahogany bookcase he and Abby had refinished together. It held the volumes of C.S. Lewis books that she'd collected after he'd convinced her that they were worth reading. In the months that they were dating she admitted to being thankful for having the books during a time when her parent's were ripping each other a part.
She hadn't been thinking of him, not completely, at the time, but the books were special because they were hers and they meant so much to her because of him.
He sighed, closing his eyes as he felt the helplessness wash over him. Abby would go to Bethany. That much he knew. Maybe she wouldn't choose her sister over him, but she would certainly keep the scales balanced.
They'd given Bethany their office and moved everything that was theirs into the guestroom. It was across the hall from the bath and at the top of the stairs. The floors were hardwood and the walls still white. It was a room they were saving for plans . . . to put together correctly when there was a family to put it together for.
Beth had done little to decorate besides put up a few pictures that she'd brought with her from her mom's home and the few framed prints Abby had bought to cover the holes the marks from the bulletin boards nails. She still had her room at her dads, but she didn't choose to live with him, and he didn't choose to invite her to even visit.
She'd left the door open which meant, Ray thought, that she'd been so angry she hadn't thought of it or she really hadn't believed anyone would bother.
And she had reason, he supposed.
She lay prostrate on her bed with her face to the window. She shifted, hearing him standing there, tensing, "Go away."
Ray took a deep breath, thinking before he stepped. He'd been one of three brothers, born within a five year span. They'd all been teenagers together, so he'd never before had to wonder what you say to a teenager. He'd been one a teenager the last time he dealt with them.
Taking a deep breath, he prayed silently, for words, wisdom, and . . . whatever else he needed.
"I will, if you want," he said slowly, leaning against the door frame, "but I'd like an opportunity to defend myself."
"It would just be a lie."
"I promise you, Bethany, I'll never lie to you."
She sighed and after a moment turned over slowly to lay on her back. She looked up at the ceiling, her face wet from the tears. But she wasn't crying now, and that, he thought, was good.
"You all lie, so it wouldn't matter."
"All men are human, Beth . . . and I doubt that you really believe that women are any better."
"You made Abby cry."
He started to deny it, then admitted to himself that he didn't know for sure that he hadn't, "Yes, and Abby has made me cry. It's a marriage, Beth, we work things out."
"You manipulate."
"We compromise," he stepped into the room, then settled on the edge of the bed, hoping to seem less daunting. And sometimes, he thought, you did push and prod to help the other person move on, grow. He was going to have to do it with Abby. Neither of them could go on like this.
But that wasn't something he would explain to Bethany.
She watched him, the pools of tears in her eyes breaking to stream down the side of her face. Her large and uncertain brown eyes held his, despite the tears, for a long, steady moment. There was turmoil in her eyes, deep-rooted sadness. Like Abby, he thought, she missed her mom. And he was far from adequate to help either of them.
Slowly she pushed herself up to lean against the headboard, then used the palms of her hands, so like Abby, to wipe the tears away.
"We're not your parents, Beth. We refuse to be."
"You fit the part right now. Always arguing, eating dinner in separate rooms, going to bed at different times. You never talk to her. Neither of you seem happy."
He couldn't deny it, for he'd noticed the same agonizing details. He'd been avoiding Abby and today's confrontation as much as she'd been avoiding him, but she'd been the one to carry her meal to a different room, if she ate at all. She was sleeping more, skipping meals. Their most important time together had been breakfast and he never saw her so early anymore.
"It hasn't been an easy time."
"But aren't you supposed to comfort and protect and all that stuff?"
"I—"
"A person has to want to be comforted and protected for that to do any good," Abby's voice came from the doorway. It was soft, hesitant, but most important, apologetic.
He turned, afraid that she would be angry, but instead she looked mollified, though very, very tired. She looked at him her gaze a little shaky and unsure, but so very . . . begging. What was she begging him for?
She turned her attention to her sister, "Can you tell me why you have such a sudden abhorrence for males?"
"It doesn't matter anyway. I told him I'm not going."
"Not going where?" Ray asked.
"Why not?" Abby asked, as if she already knew.
"Kevin's just being a jerk."
"I think we established that," Ray added, then stood when the room took on a chiller feel, giving up. He glanced at his wife. "Bad humor. Sorry."
He reached for her hand, grateful when she slipped it into his. Her slim fingers curled around his larger ones in a calm, comforting act.
Abby dropped her head when Ray shut the door behind him and sighed. "Why aren't you going to prom?"
"I don't know . . . if it's one thing or the other. I bought that blue dress because Kevin said he could get a matching cumberbun and now he says he's wearing a pale green and purple tacky thing so he and Jack and Lewis can match for prom. Plus he made fun of me all day for all the effort I was putting into the whole thing. So I told him we didn't have to be worried about any of it because he was going by himself."
"I thought Kevin was looking forward to tomorrow night," Abby sat on the edge of the bed beside her sister and reached for her sister's hand. "It's all both of you have been talking about for weeks."
"Yeah . . . then he went off on this trip about how it was becoming too important, about how it was messing up his spiritual condition, so he's making it unimportant now and making fun of it."
"And making you miserable."
She shrugged and pulled her hand away to cross her arms around herself, looking so very alone and sad, "I guess it's just what men do."
"No," Abby muttered, "Dad did it. He does it. But it's not good to compare all men to him."
"He left the wedding before the reception."
"And I wasn't sure he was even going to show up. But he did," she looked around the room at the family pictures of the four of them. Her older brother, her younger sister, and her mother all with her. Their grandmother's rocking chair was in the corner with an old quilt that another grandmother had stitched long ago.
"Ray isn't like him. Neither is Kevin."
"He made you cry today."
"I made me cry. And yeah, Ray was part of it. Beth, I was crying because it's me who's hurting him and I don't know how to stop."
"Why?"
"Because it's just too much . . . I don't even know how to explain it to myself," Abby dropped her eyes to her lap and turned her wedding band around her finger with her right hand. "When mom died, he held on. I was messed up and stupidly, I suppose, trying to stay perfect for you. And then Tim had to go back to Germany and everything just fell a part and I got messed up . . . not mentally. Like, I'm not crazy."
She took a deep breath and looked up to the ceiling to blink back the tears, but they came in a torment, finally released from the dam of emotion. "My schedule was messed up and I didn't take my birth control pills and I got myself messed up and then I started to feel bad," she sniffed and wiped unsuccessfully at the tears on her cheeks, "and now I know why and I can't tell Ray because we were waiting and it's my fault—"
"Wait a minute," Bethany turned, tugging her legs to her chest, then dropping them down on the side of the bed beside Abby. "You're having a baby and you think it's your fault?"
"Fault's not the right word," Abby muttered, feeling the shame under her sister's gaze.
"Neither is it the right emotion. You're married, Abby. And scaring Ray half to death. He probably thinks you're going to die or something. Or take off and leave him."
"Like dad did."
"You're not dad—and dad wasn't hormonally imbalanced."
"I don't know how to even start. Every time I start to tell him . . . I just can't. I'm excited, so happy thinking about his child inside of me, but then I think he doesn't know and it's not something he wants to know—or he wants to know, I'm sure, but . . . ," she sighed and attempted a smile. She reached up and pushed her hair back out of her face. "Okay, so . . . let's say I talk to Ray. What are you going to do?"
"I don't know. I don't think Kevin really cares what I think."
"You may be surprised," she said, thinking of Ray. "I guess it's up to you, Beth. It's your senior prom. You have in your mind what you want for perfection. So does Kevin . . . or maybe he did and he doesn't now. I don't know. But reality never lives up to perfection. So you'd be disappointed anyway."
"So it doesn't matter that we're going to look bad together?"
"It matters and it certainly matters that he's hurting your feelings . . . but what really matters is that it's your senior year and this is your senior prom and you've been looking forward to this night with Kevin and your friends for months."
"So what am I supposed to do. Go buy a new dress to match a purple and pale green cumberbun?"
"No. Go to the prom and have a good time. Nothing's perfect anyway."
"Not even a marriage."
"No," Abby agreed. "It just takes work."
"And communication."
"I'll talk to Ray."
"And I'll call Kevin," Bethany smiled and leaned forward to hug her sister. She leaned back and sighed, "please promise me you'll tell him tonight."
"I promise. But let's pray first. For both of us. Let God go before us."
* * * * *
Ray was back in the kitchen, sitting at the worn kitchen table running his fingers over Abby's car key when she stepped into the kitchen. He glanced up, a bit wearily. Her eyes was soft, and there was that stubborn fear again, but there was also a question and a hesitation that broke his heart.
He stood, pushing the chair back and reached out both hands to her.
She didn't run, but walked, putting one foot in front of the other. Neither did she reach for her hands, but settled them first in her pockets, then in front of her in a loose, nervous clasp.
She took a deep breath and looked at him. Made herself meet his gaze. "When I made the ultimatum about the counselor—I made it because of mom and dad," she glanced up at the ceiling fan above them and took in a deep breath, watching it's arms move in a slow rotation before forcing her eyes back to Rays. "I never thought it would be me that needed it—or me who's pride was too strong to do what's right."
She stepped into his arms when he held them out to her and leaned into him and he pulled her close. She took another deep breath, breathing him in, and prayed a prayer of thanksgiving, then one for courage.
"I've been messed up," Abby said, leaning back and finding the strength, she looked into his eyes. I didn't take care of things like I should have when mom died. Birth control pills mess up my hormones anyway . . . and when you get off of them, irregularly, it's even worse. I . . . we, we're going to have a baby, Ray."
"A baby—" he stared at her for a minute. He looked as if she's spoken a word he didn't know, but he didn't give her a chance to watch the news settle in. Instead, he reached out, pulled her close, then took a deep breath before laughing. A relieved, deep down, laugh.
"Is that all?"
"Is that all?" she pushed back, as far as he would let her since his hands stayed linked at the small of her back. She stared at him. There was relief, for sure, but she wondered how much reality still needed to be dealt with. "I've been so messed up, afraid you were going to be . . . not angry, but upset . . . we had said we would wait, that we needed to—"
"And I thought I was loosing you to depression," he reached out, traced the curve of her bottom lip with his thumb, the look in his eyes growing very tender. "Or something worse. You shouldn't have been afraid to talk to me, Abby. God's in control. Besides, we're married."
"I know. Bethany reminded me of the same thing. I've been so messed up," she smiled and lifted up on her toes to kiss him, and realized, as she did, that the smile on his face was wide and happy. He was happy.
It made her feel a little light headed, "We're going to have a baby, Carmichael."
*****
"So what do you think?"
Abby pushed the last pin in her sister's hair and stepped back as Bethany looked herself over. In the end, she'd made up with Kevin, and decided that simpler was better anyway. So tonight, instead of worrying over her hair with the perfect placement of the right amount of curls held up, and the right amount slipping down, she'd simplified. She'd asked Abby to put her hair in a tight bun and had tugged a few pieces out to frame her face.
She looked, Abby thought, sophisticated. Like a princess who knew her place.
The blue gown fit her perfectly, hugging her only slightly along the waist before it dropped and shimmered to the floor.
"What did mama do when you went to your prom?"
"I don't know, Bethany," Abby sighed. "I was living with dad when I had my prom, so I got ready and left the house alone. Mama never looked at my pictures, because she was angry with me for choosing dad . . . but I would like to think she would be proud."
"I can tell you what I wished for. I wished that mama would have been there to give me that stay safe and pure speech. I wished that she'd prayed with me and given me a hug or something."
Bethany smiled, "You're going to be a good mama, Abby."
Abby placed a hand on her stomach and smiled, and thought about the long, long conversation with Ray last night . . . they'd planned and laughed and dreamed and prayed, content with each other. He was going to be a good daddy, she thought.
Nothing like her father.
Kevin surprised Bethany by wearing a blue cumberbun over the tacky green one, compromising he said, and adding that his friends had been forced to compromise themselves.
Abby stood with Ray at the window, watching her sister walk to the car with Kevin.
"That just brought back a lot of good memories," he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her from behind as Kevin help Beth into the car. She watched his hands splay consciously over her abdomen, other their child, protective, for sure. "I remembering thought all afternoon about you, agonizing because you were going with Peyton and I was going with Shelia, not knowing how I was going to make it with you in the room, not talking to you, not watching your eyes light up or your smile just . . . smile because of something I said."
"Then showing up and you were mine anyway and I couldn't put two words together. My knees couldn't hold me up."
Abby smiled and looked up as Bethany waved and the car pulled away. "We both had to sit down, catch our balance. It had happened so fast . . . and we were living so far a part."
"But things worked out."
Abby placed her hand over his, over their child, and smiled, glancing across the room at the bookshelf of leather bound C.S. Lewis books she'd collected in the years between meeting him and falling in love with him, "They sure did."
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