All the Waters of the Earth

Chapter 24: A Form of Love

Sunday morning, I awoke early in the hotel room, squished into about six inches of bed, Rob curled up against me, pressed into my back. A vast expanse of bed lay undiscovered on his other side. I had forgotten how my kid took over the bed. One night of cramped sleep wasn't the end of the world, but I preferred to actually have space in which to sleep. The thing is, when children are asleep, they are the most perfect angels, and can do no wrong. Looking at him, I noticed that his little nose was upturned, and he made a soft, whiffling noise, as he slept.

Glancing over at Jake, asleep in the other bed, my eyes widened. Damn. Now he looked fine.

When he was awake, he looked like the romance heroes that I wrote about: tall, dark, chiseled, and handsome. Asleep, he was all of those things, but there was a softness to him: his lips pursed when he breathed, and his eyelids flickered slightly, his black hair sleep-messy. He was so tall, he reached the end of the bed. Resting on his stomach, his hands under the pillow, I admired his muscular shoulders. He had worn modest clothes to bed, a dark blue t-shirt and striped pajama pants, and there was something both comforting and arousing about his presence.

Perhaps sensing me staring at him, in a moment, he blinked and opened his eyes, the denim blue color startling in the morning light.

"Hey," he whispered, across the way from me, in his own bed, just out of reach.

"Morning," I whispered back. And I realized that I could really, very easily, get used to waking up to Jake.

"You and Rob sleep okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, though he takes up as much room as a baby elephant."

He smiled, a glorious, sleepy, morning smile. "Let's make it a good day for him."

We spent the rest of the morning visiting the Strip, Rob's eyes wide at the hugeness of it all; going through the Titanic exhibit at the Luxor, a hit with my twelve year old; and eating lunch where Rob wanted. Spoiled? Maybe. But he didn't get to leave the hotel room yesterday, so I wanted to give him what Carlos had promised. Then we hopped in Jake's car and drove back to Santa Barbara.

And then suddenly, a few days later, it was three days before Christmas. Despite my planning, it had still snuck up on me. House? Decorated. Presents? Wrapped. Rob? Excited. Me? I woke up with a fever, chilled, sweating, and coughing. I felt horrible. Really, death sounded better. Well, not really, but I was very sick. Rob came in my bedroom, worried when mom didn't get out of bed, bringing me water and saltine crackers.

By the afternoon, I was feeling worse, and could tell that I needed to see a doctor and get some antibiotics. I didn't have time to be sick; it was Christmas! After going to Urgent Care, where they gave me a prescription and diagnosed me with a form of pneumonia — which I had probably caught in Las Vegas — I filled the prescription and went home to bed.

When Jake called me from work, as was his wont, I must have sounded dreadful, because he said, "Lucy, honey, give me your mom's number, and I'll have her bring you over some soup."

Since Jake had come over to my house for dinner that first night after we got back together, I had continued to feed him dinner, although he had nevertheless been working quite a bit. He took the time to come over and see me, but still, he worked way beyond an 8 to 5 or 9 to 5 schedule. Well beyond. That man needed to learn that he just did not have to do that anymore. But even though he worked a lot, he had taken to texting or calling me throughout the day, which was something that I loved. My man thought about me, he was taking the time for me, and he was communicating with me.

Too tired to think or argue with him, I gave him my mom's number.

A few hours later, she appeared at my door with a tureen of homemade tortilla soup, with the spicy, clear-your-sinuses chicken broth a blessing. Homemade soup is a form of love. I managed a little bit of the broth, and went back to bed.

Jake came by that night, earlier than usual, and checked in on me. I felt practically comatose, but I appreciated his concern. He stroked my forehead, brought me ice water, and straightened my bedsheets. I felt cared for. Then I heard him talking with Rob in the living room for a long time, and I dozed and then fell asleep.

By Christmas Eve, I could tell that the antibiotics were doing something. I didn't feel better, but I felt like I was taking steps to get better, and that mattered.

We were set to go to my parents' house for tamales and a good Christmas Eve dinner. Jake wasn't coming, even though he was invited, because he was going to visit his dad; but we were going have Christmas together. I made it through the family dinner, barely, then wrapped up in a blanket and lay down on the guest bed at my parents' house. After a while, my dad drove Rob and me home.

Christmas morning, I felt like a human being. I was still sick, but human. Jake knocked on the door early, and made us coffee, and he and Rob made some muffins out of a mix and cut up some fruit for a salad. Frankly, it was the best thing ever. While our celebration was tiny, and subdued, it still felt like it was special.

I curled up on the couch with a cup of coffee, wrapped in a blanket, and watched Rob open his presents. I gave Jake a card that said, "GOOD FOR ONE WEEKEND TRIP AWAY MY TREAT." Careful of how to act around Rob, he reached over and ran his finger along my hand. "Thank you," he said. "We will use this as soon as you feel better."

Then he pulled out, from under the tree, two identically wrapped packages that looked like picture frames, and handed them to me.

"These are for you," he said, "from me and Rob."

Surprised, I said, "Thank you," and slid my finger under the tape of the first one.

It was a framed drawing by Rob of me. Jake had clearly spent time with Rob, whether it was when he watched him the first time, or now, while I was sick, helping Rob draw, because the picture, although childish, clearly captured me: my hair, my face, my clothes, my expression. I was smiling in the picture, and smiling in real life.

"Did you draw this, mijo?" I asked.

"Yeah, mom," Rob answered.

"It's magnificent," I said. "You did such a good job. Come here let me kiss you."

"You sure you're not contagious?"

"The doctor says no."

"Mister Jake and I spent time drawing. It's fun."

I shook my head. "It's more than fun, son. It's art. It's wonderful." And then I turned to Jake. "It's wonderful. I might cry."

He smiled. "Open the other one."

Repeating the procedure of sliding my finger under tape and opening it up, I exposed another drawing of me, matted identically, in an identical frame, but this one was clearly by Jake. In it I was smiling, and looking over my shoulder back at him, my ass in a mini skirt, my feet in high heels, my mojo all on display. It was totally me — at least me when I was healthy.

"I love it," I whispered. "Thank you. We'll put them up today."

Jake nodded and Rob said, "We thought you might like a homemade present, mom."

"Yes, mijo, I do." I didn't know how to express how much it meant to me that a man, not Rob's father, took the time to show him how to do something, and then showed that it mattered, by presenting it in a way that gave it legitimacy. I was honored by the present, and I was honored to know him.

So instead of saying this, I leaned over and kissed him lightly, in front of my son. "Thanks," I said, "and Merry Christmas."