A Labor of Love CH 8/11
A Labor of Love: a Bridget Jones Fic
by Eggsbenni221, in 10 chapters+epilogue
Rating: T
Chapter Word Count: 3426
Summary: see chapter 1
I wrote a letter in my mind, but the words were so unkind, about a man I can’t remember.
I don’t recall the reasons why, I must have meant them at the time, is this the sound of sweet surrender?
- Robbie Williams, “Shame"
Friday 26 May
10.00 PM
Once again, I’ve been a shamefully neglectful chronicler of the unfolding events of pending parenthood, for no other reason than that the cogs and gears of life have been constantly churning. Baby continues to grow steadily and healthily if the increasingly vigorous movement is any indication. Bridget continues to cope as well as she can despite the fatigue and the roller-coaster of hormone fluctuations. I feel as if I’ve said this before, but thank Heaven for Magda. If I have to endure one more obsessive analysis of varicose veins, stretch-marks, and the general litany of bodily distortions that Bridget is convinced will scar her for life, I might lose what remaining sanity I’ve managed to cling to. Not that I blame her, naturally; I can’t begin to imagine (nor, I confess, have I any desire to imagine) what she must be feeling.
I’ve done my best to offer every form of support I can think of ranging from Belgian chocolate to back massages, but I seem unable to do anything just at the moment. Cushions are too hard; blankets suffocate her; chocolate gives her heartburn. (This, I admit, is a serious problem, and I’m making a concerted effort to take into consideration that withdrawal, in addition to other pregnancy symptoms, is naturally lending to her irritability). The truth forces me to admit, however, that despite the vastness of my legal knowledge, I’ve encountered no cases involving husbands of expectant mothers claiming human rights violation. This must, under some law, constitute torture.
Sunday 4 June
10.30 PM
Exhausted and anxious. Bridget feeling poorly. She has spent almost the entire day in bed with terrible headache and lower back pain and seems unable to find any relief. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve run back and forth with tea, hot water bottles, heating pads, and everything else imaginable. Nothing has worked. Am utterly exhausted.
Normally Bridget complains that my constant hovering smothers her; today she seems uncharacteristically clingy and anxious. I’ve tried, between tending her, to accomplish a bit of work, and in a desperate attempt to make her comfortable, I finally brought my paperwork upstairs and settled myself in bed beside her. This, not surprisingly, transpired to be a mistake; between the fact that baby’s movement keeps Bridget awake at night and my tendency, given her condition, to sleep with one eye open, neither of us has had the benefit of a restful night for several weeks. Bridget’s warm weight against my side as she snuggled beneath my arm gradually made me drowsy, and when I could no longer fight it, I shoved my papers aside and fell instantly to sleep. I’ve become so attuned to Bridget’s movements that the moment my body registered her absence beside me, I jerked back to consciousness. As I allowed my eyes to adjust to the setting sun filtering through the curtains, I observed the bathroom light on but heard no signs of movement.
“Bridget? Are you all right?”
“I-don’t know. I think--” The sound of violent retching that interrupted her words made my own stomach clench.
“Don’t move!” I called back, rather stupidly I realize. (Why, oh why, am I such a useless idiot in crisis mode?) “I’ll be right there.” Bending over Bridget, murmuring “It’s okay… it’s okay,” over and over, I wondered if I were reassuring myself as much as I was reassuring her. (No one need wonder why I chose to become a barrister instead of a doctor). When finally the wave of illness passed, Bridget leaned heavily against me as I helped her back to bed. Having seen her settled, I fetched her a glass of water, needlessly rearranged the pillows, and perched on the side of the bed. I wasn’t doing something I thought as I looked at her; I needed to do something. Instinctively I reached for her hand, pressing it between both of mine, rubbing the edge of my thumbs across her wrist.
“Mark,” she whispered, squeezing my hand, “Mark, I don’t feel right. Something doesn’t feel right.” Wanting to give myself time to steady my voice, I reached to brush the hair back from her forehead before replying.
“You’ve been under a lot of stress these last few weeks,” I reminded her. “I’m sure you’re just feeling the effects of it.”
“But it isn’t only that. This feels different somehow. It’s not just normal tiredness.”
“You don’t know that,” I said gently, not wanting to dismiss her concern, while trying to silence the alarm bell beginning to sound in my own mind.
Bridget shot me a glare of pure hormone-charged frustration. “I’m pretty sure, if there were something wrong, I’d be the first to know! It’s my body, isn’t it?”
“You’re right,” I conceded, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “I’m sorry, love.”
Bridget sighed. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m just-not feeling like myself, and it probably doesn’t help that I’ve been lying here, imagining everything that could be wrong with me.”
“Such as?” (I knew precisely what she was thinking, because so was I in that moment, but I couldn’t bear to voice the fear; the thought of speaking it out loud nearly made me choke).
“Like-like-I don’t know! What if--” Bridget hesitated. “Mark, what if something happens and-and we lose the baby? We’ve tried so hard, and it’s taken so long and-I can’t bear to think about it!”
“Then don’t,” I murmured, lying back down beside her and massaging the small of her back.
“I can’t help it! I try not to, but the thoughts just keep coming. They’re like rabbits. You can’t have just one; they start breeding inside your head!”
“Hmm, well, then we’ll just have to see what we can do to chase them away,” I said, reaching to caress her cheek.
“Mark, be serious!”
“Bridget, listen to me. Unnecessary anxiety is the last thing you need at the moment.”
“I just have this horrible feeling of, well, I don’t know-foreboding?”
I lay down beside her and pulled her head to my shoulder. “Darling, try not to worry. I know it’s hard, but try. You have an appointment with the doctor tomorrow, I think?” Bridget nodded. “Right then. That’s fortunate, because it would probably have been wise to schedule one anyway if you really feel that poorly. Right now you’re going to rest, and you’re going to try not to worry, and we’ll deal with tomorrow when tomorrow gets here, all right?”
“But Mark, you can’t be sure of anything.”
“That’s true,” I agreed. “but I do know that worrying excessively isn’t going to solve anything. This is why you have regular doctor visits.”
She nodded. “Will you come with me tomorrow? I know you have to work, but…”
I pressed a kiss to her temple. “You know I will, if it will make you feel better.” As I released her, Bridget clutched at my hand again.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m being stupid, but something-something just doesn’t feel quite right.” Brushing aside my own mounting anxiety, I drew her into my arms and cradled her against my chest until she fell back to sleep. Now, naturally, I seem to be staring down another sleepless night. I suppose I should consider this adequate practice for the near future.
Monday 5 June
8.00 PM
I accompanied Bridget to her 28-week doctor’s visit today, and the events of yesterday have received an explanation. As it turns out, Bridget has been displaying symptoms of preeclampsia-extremely mild, thank Heaven, and hardly surprising under the circumstances. Anxiety, apparently, in addition to the other physical symptoms she complained of yesterday, is one of the warning signs. It would appear that the alarmist tendencies I’ve entertained for most of the pregnancy have not been without cause, but under the circumstances, it seems wise to suppress the urge to say ‘I told you so.’
Now, of course, I find myself facing the task of keeping Bridget occupied and entertained, which seems at times a more monumental task than minding an infant. The doctor has instructed her to monitor her activity, and she’ll need to undergo regular stress tests for the next several weeks, but there seems no immediate need for concern as long as her condition remains stable. We’ve already had a row over the situation, and if nothing else thus far has surprised me, I should also have expected that maintaining sufficient calm to keep Bridget’s blood pressure under control would come at the expense of my own. Bridget has agreed to work primarily from home during the remainder of the pregnancy, and at first, I contemplated the feasibility of rearranging my schedule so that I could do the same when possible to be with her, but when Bridget insisted that this would drive her insane, I managed to exact a promise from her that if she agrees to follow the doctor’s orders absolutely and call me immediately if she needs anything, I’ll promise to endeavor to rein in my overprotective paternal instincts. Whether or not we can each stay true to this agreement, only time will tell.
Friday 9 June
9.00 PM
Bridget doing better, it seems, though naturally frustrated by her nineteenth-century style confinement. She’s seemed in far better spirits today; Talitha has apparently taken it upon herself to pop over for an hour in the afternoons, which has undoubtedly provided a welcome distraction. I very often find one or other of the urban family at the house when I arrive home, generally Tom, who seems the only one of us able to convince Bridget that she does not, in fact, resemble a beached whale.
Monday 19 June
10.30 PM
Bridget doing extremely well today, in high spirits and without quite as much evidence of cabin fever as I would have anticipated after a week at home. Apparently daily contact with the urban family is doing wonders for her frame of mind. I’ve glanced through my diary for the remainder of the week and think I can easily manage to clear my Friday afternoon. As long as Bridget feels equal to it, perhaps a day out will do her good.
Friday 23 June
5.00 PM
The stars have officially conspired to align themselves in opposition to my desires. I went into chambers earlier than usual this morning with the intention of completing a day’s work by lunch time; I even managed to reschedule a meeting for earlier in the day, giving myself ample time to arrive home early and surprise Bridget. When I entered the house, Bridget’s laughter greeted me, and I smiled, expecting to find one of the urban family keeping her entertained. What I saw, however, left me feeling as though an iron hand had wrapped itself around my lungs. Sitting beside her, one arm draped over the back of the sofa, grinning at my astonishment was none other than Daniel Cleaver.
The tightness in my chest eased slightly when Bridget turned her smile on me. “Mark! Hi! You’re home early. I didn’t expect you until this evening.” She half-raised herself, prepared to greet me with her customary embrace; she paused, however, when I made no move toward her, her eyes flickering in Daniel’s direction.
“Forgive me if I’m interrupting anything,” I said coolly, my jealous instinct immediately quashing any possible contemplation of offering Daniel an olive branch. (I’ve not really considered it seriously; I blame that delirious idea on sleep deprivation). “I thought I might come home early and see if you felt up to going out for a bit, Bridget, but it seems my presence isn’t required.”
“Don’t be such a grouch, Mark. Daniel just popped in to say hello and see how I’ve been getting on. Isn’t it a lovely surprise?”
“Well, certainly a surprise,” I replied.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” said Daniel, looking, to my astonishment, slightly embarrassed.
“I think it’s rather too late for that,” I said.
“Mark!” Bridget snapped, her eyes blazing.
Unrelenting, I folded my arms and glared back at her. “Bridget, I find it surprising that you’d expect me to react differently.”
“Mark, you’re being rude,” she said, the barest hint of a maternal-sounding reprimand in her tone (pregnancy hormones obviously doing their job).
“Come on, Darce,” said Daniel. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just at this moment,” I responded, fixing my glare on him, “I’d like you to leave.”
“Okay, that’s it!” Before either of us could prevent it, Bridget struggled to her feet, leaning heavily on the arm of the sofa. “This is ridiculous! I can’t take this anymore! You’re both grown men, and you’re behaving like children. I love both of you, and I know you love each other.”
“That seems a gross exaggeration,” I observed.
“Well, I don’t think so! You do love each other-maybe, um, very deep down,” Bridget amended. “Aren’t you tired of this? Because I know I am. Can’t you please just end it? Please?”
“Bridget,” I said, reaching out a hand to steady her, “you shouldn’t be upsetting yourself, least of all over this.”
“Well,” she shot back, “maybe you should have thought of that before you barged in here and started acting like a complete arse!”
Daniel stood quickly, placing a hand on Bridget’s shoulder and gently forcing her back down onto the sofa. “Bridge, come on,” he soothed. “It’s not worth it. Just calm down, okay?”
“Daniel, no. I’ve had enough of this. Maybe you’re okay with it, but I’m not.”
“Sh, I know, but maybe this isn’t the best time. Mark’s right; you should be taking things easy.” He bent and pressed a kiss to her cheek, and the iron hand began to claw at my chest again. “I’ll come round another time, okay?” Reluctantly Bridget nodded. Before I could speak, Daniel turned to me. “I’ll see myself out,” he said by way of farewell. Without much consideration, I followed him from the room; at the front door, he turned round, one hand on the doorknob.
“Mark, look, let’s just forget it. It’s pretty obvious I’ve outstayed my welcome, but can I just ask you one question?” He paused, his gaze piercing me with a searching look. “Why do you have to make this so difficult? I know I’ve fucked things up pretty badly in the past, and maybe I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but think about Bridget. Maybe you don’t think I deserve better, but she does. What’s the point of all of this? Holding onto a grudge, making yourself miserable, making Bridget miserable-for the life of me, I can’t work out what you’re trying to achieve.”
“You can’t just wipe the slate clean,” I said. “It’s not that simple.”
Daniel shrugged. “Bridget seems to think it is.” He considered me for another moment, then added, “I do love her, you know. I can’t love her the way you can; we both know that, but I do love her.” I felt my throat tighten and, not trusting myself to speak, I nodded. “Right,” Daniel said brusquely. “I’d better be off then. I’ll pop round again some time, if that’s all right. To see Bridget.”
I took a deep breath, struggling to unstick the words lodging in the back of my throat. “She’d appreciate that,” I managed finally.
“Right, well, tell her to expect me then.”
“I’ll do that.” I stood at the door and watched Daniel depart, endeavoring to ignore the hollow feeling that had suddenly replaced the iron claw in my chest.
When I returned to Bridget, I found her still seated where I’d left her, thumbing through a magazine.
“I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” she said, not bothering to raise her head as I perched tentatively on the edge of the sofa beside her.
“I find it astonishing that my reaction surprises you,” I replied. When Bridget turned to face me, I saw the wrong I had done reflected in the angry tears shining in her eyes.
“I’m so fucking tired of this, Mark. All these years you’ve said it didn’t matter, you’ve said you could deal with Daniel and me being friends again, but every time I mention him, every time we’re together in any situation, you get this look in your eyes-like I’m betraying you. It’s like you think I’m conspiring against you or something.”
“Bridget,” I protested, “that’s not--”
“That’s precisely what it is, Mark. It hurts me to see the way the two of you look at each other, like you’ve got this wall between you and you’re both too scared to climb over it, but I hate even more that you’ve never even thought about how I get stuck in the middle of it. I’m tired of that-tired of feeling like I’m this doll that you’re both playing tug-of-war with. Can’t you see that?”
“You’re right,” I said. “It was just-I came in, and there he was, and I couldn’t help experiencing just a twinge of deja vu there for an instant.” Bridget continued to glare at me, her lips pressed together in stubborn silence.
“Bridget, I’m sorry.”
She sighed. “Mark, do you remember that speech I made about you being a complete idiot sometimes?” I nodded. “Do you want me to make it again?”
“Frankly, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”
“Well,” she said, folding her arms and staring back at me, “can you tell me something? Why is this so hard for you?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I honestly don’t know.”
“I don’t see what’s so complicated about it,” said Bridget. “You know you’re being ridiculous. You know you miss Daniel. You’ve said it yourself.”
“I did say that,” I agreed.
“Then what exactly is the problem? Not to put too fine a point on it, Mark, you don’t have such a large circle of friends that you can afford to push one away.”
“Well, that’s kind of you,” I grumbled.
“I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I just meant… you’re a bit, you know… introverted.”
“Oh, well, as long as you didn’t mean it in a bad way,” I said.
“Mark, you know what I mean. You’re more, well, intimate, if you prefer. You like to cultivate close relationships with a few people instead of having oodles of acquaintances.”
“That’s true, I suppose,” I conceded.
“And other than Jeremy, I think Daniel is the only person you’ve ever really allowed yourself to trust completely.”
“Which is why,” I pointed out, “everything that happened between us hurt so deeply. It had nothing to do with my marriage, really, not in terms of the overly romantic sense of leaving me broken-hearted, at least.”
“It wasn’t your wife who broke your heart,” murmured Bridget. “It was Daniel.”
“I wouldn’t have put it so melodramatically,” I replied, “but in a word, yes. Whether or not he regrets it doesn’t matter, because I’ve never been able to understand how a friend-how my best friend-could do something so obviously without moral scruple.”
“You make it sound more premeditated than it was, I think,” said Bridget. “I know Daniel; you know Daniel. He isn’t-I don’t know-premeditatedly evil.”
“He doesn’t count consequences, Bridget.”
“Maybe not, but he realizes when he’s made a mistake, and I don’t think he’s such a hopeless fuckwit that he can’t learn from his mistakes. I think that’s why the two of you need each other, actually.”
I frowned. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“I think you… balance each other out. I think for Daniel, you’ve always represented the kind of stability he never really had, and you envy the fact that it’s so easy for him not to take himself so seriously. You can give him structure, and he can teach you how to bend a bit.”
“I hadn’t ever really considered it in that light,” I admitted. “but how do you cross a bridge you burned ages ago?”
Bridget smiled. “You rebuild it.”
Such a simple answer to such a perplexing problem, but this has never failed to baffle me when it comes to Bridget-how she can manage to make things so ridiculously complicated for herself and so amazingly simple for me.