Say you love me

Part 28

1971:
"Don't walk away from me, you fucker!" Chris yelled as John stormed away. Ignoring her, he went to the door, stopping to grab his coat from the hook. He stopped in the doorway as he put it on, glaring at Christine.
"It's crazy, Christine! You're crazy for wanting to go through that again--" "What else am I going to do then, John? What else do I have to look forward to? The doctor said I'm healthy and--" "You could start focusing on our fucking marriage?" Chris stared at him fiercely, her eyes rapidly lighting with an angry blue fire.

"Focus? Don't tell me I should be the one focusing, when you're out at the pub every night! You still smell like booze from last night!" John stopped, stared at her. "You're obsessed with having a kid, Christine," he growled huskily. "Ever since we got married it's been baby baby baby. Then you cry and wonder why the band's doing so poorly, but Christine, it's because of you! If you took your obligations more seriously--"

"Who's idea was it to join your band, John, huh?" Chris pointed her finger, seething with rage. They'd never fought like this before, even at their lowest. John was like someone she didn't even know he was looking at her with so much venom. Was this really the man she married only two years ago?

John was thinking the same about Christine as he said dully, "I don't need this bullshit. I'm out of here." He slammed the door on his way out, making the house rattle. Chris stood there, willing herself not to cry.

It was his idea to have her join Fleetwood Mac as the keyboardist. He insisted she was the piece they were missing, and she believed him. Playing didn't have the appeal it once did before. Now it was definitely gone. Playing with an angry spouse in neighboring bands was one thing, being in the same band with an angry spouse was another. John'd find some way or other to embarrass her at rehearsal, or during a show; last week he got drunk at rehearsal and started blabbering about some painting Chris had done and how it was the best in the world and how he'd be damned if Picasso had shit on his sexy as hell wife.

Chris gulped down her tears, catching a few in the sleeve of her sweater, and went to the couch. She sat down cross legged and grabbed a throw pillow, hugging it to her chest and burying her face in it.

She wanted a child, she wanted a family. After losing the baby a year before, Chris woke up that morning deciding she wanted to try again. It was just a tragic accident, surely she could have a healthy baby, right?

But John didn't want to try a second time, no, he wouldn't try a second time. "Chris, you can't be serious," he said, putting out his cigarette on the ashtray in the middle of the table. "What's that supposed to mean? I'm perfectly healthy, everything's functioning right and there's no reason I can't--"
"We can't take care of a baby!" John's icy tone stopped Chris cold. "We barely have any money, and we're always touring. Hell, we didn't even have the nursery half finished!" He got up and paced the table, stopping in front of Christine. Her heart hardened. This wasn't because they didn't have the time, or the money or the resources. Well, truly they didn't. But that wasn't it. This was all about John, as usual. This was because of him.

"Admit it," Chris spat out, looking at John disdainfully. "Admit what?" "When I got pregnant that first time, and you came to me at my mother's house and said you wanted the baby. You were lying. You didn't want it! I bet your sorry ass was happy when I miscarried on the fucking studio rug!" She whacked her arm across the table, sending the ashtray flying. Ashes and cigarette butt scattered against the wall.

"Christine, for God's sakes, stop it!" John reached his hands out to Christine, trying in vain. She slapped his hands away. Instead of hitting her back like most men would've done, John started for the door, not saying anything. Hence the prior scene in the doorway.

Chris shakily got up from the couch, and grabbing the dustpan and brush from under the sink, began to clean up the spilled ashes, cigarettes and broken ceramic ashtray. The dusty smell of the ashes made her sneeze.

Was she wrong to want what so many women already had? It wasn't like she dreamed of being a housewife, waiting on her husband hand and foot, but having a baby with John was what she wanted most. They loved each other enough, and no doubt their child would be born into a loving home. And they weren't dirt poor, but certainly not rich.

Was Chris just being dillusional, or was John trying to save her the heartbreak?
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Chris was woken up by a pair of arms around her. She knew those arms, knew them quite well actually. John was lying next to her, kissing her face and whispering in her ear. "I'm so sorry, darling," he whispered. "I love you so much." His breath reeked of booze. He'd been at the pub again. Typical. He kissed Chris's neck, her ears, stopping at her lips. She kissed him back, cringing at the taste of whiskey on his breath. But he kissed her gently, drunk or not.

Chris kissed him back, and they made love in the darkness of their bedroom.