Possibilities - Part EightB
I think that the rest of this story will come out much faster (not that there's much left) so you should all be happy about the quick updates. I'll also keep you all updated on the pregnancy front!

As always, comments and criticism are very welcome. I hope that this all still strikes everyone as realistic and in character.

BlueHeronz also has Jovsg's interview with me up over at her page, so I'd invite anyone interested to head on over and read it!

Interview



Possibilities - Part EightB

Although you keep telling yourself that you should talk to Allison, the weekend rolls around and you still haven’t had a conversation more serious than what to eat for dinner and when your mother should arrive for Thanksgiving. You have an excuse to avoid her on Saturday morning, because Wilson has invited you to go with him to a Giants game at the Meadowlands, and you need to pick him up by ten to get there and find parking before the noon kickoff.

It’s after six by the time you get home, but you told Allison not to hold dinner so you aren’t surprised to find the kitchen dark. You are surprised when you find her.

She’s in the nursery, which isn’t unexpected. She has a paint roller in her hand and splatters of green in her hair, which is. You’d told her to call someone to come in and do the painting. Instead it appears she’s spent the afternoon doing the job herself, including standing on a ladder that’s set up in the corner.

“What the hell are you doing?” are the first words out of your mouth.

Almost immediately, you realize they aren’t wise words, but they were the first ones that sprang to your mind.

“I’m conducting the Philharmonic,” she says dryly, blowing a strand of hair off of her forehead.

You swear under your breath and she puts one hand on her hip and shakes her head.

“What’s the problem?”

“Nothing,” you spit out. “Nothing. You want to climb ladders less than two weeks after landing in the ER, feel free.”

When you turn and stomp away, you can feel her eyes on you.

You’re sitting on the couch with a glass of scotch in your hand and the bottle on the table next to you when Allison walks into the room. She sits down on the far end of the couch, with one leg curled beneath her. You know she sits that way so that she’ll be able to more easily push herself up. She looks from you to the bottle and back again before speaking.

“I’d grab a glass, but since you freaked out over me lifting a paint roller, I’d hate to see what you’d do if I started drinking.”

Your brows lower and you let out an “Oh, very funny,” with a tone and expression that says it absolutely is not.

She shrugs and tells you it was the best she could come up with on short notice. Then she asks if you’re going to tell her what’s been bothering you.

You take another drink and stare at the light dancing gently through the liquid in the cut-glass tumbler.

“I’ll save you over her,” you say after a pause that is much too long.

The pause before she responds is much shorter.

“I know that.”

She’s looking at you with a perfectly calm, serious, honest look on her face and you think you’ve misheard her, but you know you haven’t.

“What?” you say anyway, just to fill the air before you can think of anything more intelligent to say.

“You expected me to fight you.”

“The thought had occurred to me.”

You’re confused and you hope your face doesn’t show how much.

Her lips twitch slightly, as if she’s rehearsing the words she’s about to say, or maybe just organizing them in her mouth. She looks you straight in the eye when she begins to speak.

“I can accept that if something horrible happens and you can only save one of us, you’ll save me. I can accept that because I also know that you won’t make that decision unless you absolutely have to. I can accept that because I know that if there is no way to save me, then you will let me go and you will save our daughter. You won’t ever forgive yourself, but you’ll be a wonderful father.”

The rest of your drink burns its way down your throat.

“You know all that, eh?”

“Yes,” she says with a tone and expression that makes it impossible for you to question it.

She watches you with eyes that seem to see through all of your recently and carefully constructed walls. You feel them crumbling and don’t do anything to stop it besides filling your glass again.

“How good a father can I be if I would sacrifice my own kid’s life?” you mutter and with that one sentence all of your insecurities come to the surface. Your dread at the idea that you could be anything like your father. Your regrets about your age and your leg. Your worry that maybe it isn’t possible for you to feel deeply for any other human being.

“Don’t be stupid,” Allison says, harshly enough to completely grab your attention from the demons that are pulling at it.

She grabs the glass from your hand and thumps it down onto the table, sloshing your good scotch over the rim.

“Maybe you’re trying to keep yourself from feeling too much. I know. I did the same thing. I didn’t want to get hurt again, so I tried so hard not to think about her being a real baby. I tried to think like you always have in the past, imagining a blob of tissue instead of tiny hands and feet. But I’ve felt her kick now. I’ve felt her get the hiccups and roll over and move when I sing to her. I couldn’t let myself miss out on those joys… not even if everything ends heartache again, and I’m not going to let you miss out anymore either. Right now she’s just a possibility to you, but you’ll see. When you hold her in your arms, you may still doubt that you’ll be a good father, but you won’t doubt that you love her.”

When you look up at her you see that she has tears standing in her eyes and you know it isn’t just the pregnancy hormones making her weepy, because you feel the need to clear your own throat, and your hand reflexively moves to reach out and rest on her knee.

“Wilson should have told you all of this already,” she gripes, breaking the emotional mood. “Instead he leaves me to pick up the pieces.”

Your lips twitch and then you’re almost smiling as you ask her why she’s so sure you’ve talked to Wilson about anything. You’re a little surprised she isn’t upset that you’d go to him first, but she tells you that she always expects you to talk to him. You’ve known him a lot longer than you’ve known her. You remember again why you married her.

She inches closer to you on the couch and pulls your hand from her knee to her belly. The baby is kicking.

“I don’t think she likes it when we fight,” Allison says.

“That wasn’t a fight, it was a discussion,” you reply. You lean in slightly and speak in an authoritative voice. “Settle down in there. You’re turning your mother’s insides to mush.”

It’s the first time you’ve done anything like that and you expect to feel foolish or stupid, but you don’t. Allison laughs, and you press your hand harder to feel the gentle movement against your fingers. You leave your hand there for a very long time because Allison is right, and you’re not going to waste any more opportunities. They may not come again.