brigits_flame = Starting Over
I actually got the spark of this idea from the poem "Act of Union" by Seamus Heaney. That it turned into something completely different from what I expected, however, was an interesting surprise.
Wyatt Amherst turns over and finds he is alone in bed. He opens one tired eye and fumbles 'round his night table for his glasses. He finds his lamp first and turns it on, blinking away the shock of sudden light. The blurred secrets of the clock face becomes clearer as he sits up and puts his glasses on.
Four o'clock.
It is four o'clock in the morning and Lucinda is not in bed. Wyatt puts the clock down. He opens the drawer of his night table and pulls on the pair of socks he took off before falling asleep earlier that night. Even though it is nearing summer, his years in the war--and his months kept prisoner in a camp--have done something to his feet. The floor always feels colder to him than to everyone else. Perhaps it goes even further back, all the way to his childhood. Each winter seemed worst than the one before it, and after his parents died, when it was only him and his brother, the winter immediately following was the worst ever in his young life. Now he carries winter everywhere he steps, but the socks help a little.
Oh, and tea. Tea also helps fight the winter, and as Wyatt creeps out of bed and down the stairs, he has a feeling (more of an instinct, really) that his wife is making tea right now, in their little kitchen. Or perhaps she's already made it, depending on how long she's been out of bed. Tea! These days, she takes it with lots of mint in it; very flavorful, like Robert used to insist on as a child. (That only makes it fitting, then, doesn't it? That he should be remembered in a namesake?) But is it tea for one or two?
Or, perhaps, is it for three? Wyatt creeps around to the lounge at the front of the house. There he finds his wife, his Lucy, reclining on their longest sofa, watching the window and sipping quietly at tea. Outside the moon hangs full, large and bright in the sky. It filters in and makes her skin glow, makes her seem divine. It seems to give her rounded belly some new amazing dimension, as something sacred.
“Couldn't sleep?” Wyatt asks.
Lucy smiles into her teacup. “He was keeping me awake with dreams.”
He. Their son. Their only, if tradition (and solely tradition, not these silly stories of curses) held within his family's line. Many generations had only given birth to one son, and tragedy always befell the father. But that seemed to change with Wyatt and his brother--at least, in the number of sons. But their parents had gotten caught in the whooping cough that carved through their village. It was disease that took them, nothing more.
Wyatt wanted a big family, and Lucy came from one and wanted one of her own. They will have it, he believes this, and it starts with this first child.
“What sort of dreams were they?” he asks.
“Pleasant dreams.” Lucy continues to sip at her tea. “Dreams of being in a meadow--oh!”
“Is he kicking?” Wyatt draws closer, settles next to her. “Are you in any pain?”
“No, it's just--yes, he's kicking quite a bit.” She takes his hand and presses it to a spot on the left side of her belly. “Here, he's very fond of this spot right here.”
Her husband chuckles. “So he is! He's a strong one...”
“That he is. He's like his father there.”
“Or his mother. Or one of his uncles... Robert had a kick like a horse when we were children; only got more powerful as he got older, to about the power of three horses.”
“I remember,” Lucy says.
Wyatt reflects surprise. “You do?”
“Of course! Don't you remember? You and Robert used to get into fights all the time with the neighborhood boys--and each other.” She laughs a little. “That's how you wound up at the pub in the first place, isn't it? Liam always likes to tell the story...”
“It was a fair enough fight,” Wyatt says, readjusting his glasses, “but I still think he cheated a bit. Somewhere...”
Lucy shakes her head, returning her attention to her tea. Wyatt pours himself a cup, blinking a little at how strongly the mint flavoring comes through on the first sip. Robert would have enjoyed it, would have probably laughed at Wyatt for looking so startled when he prefers his Earl Grey to be quite strong--
“I miss him,” Wyatt says softly.
“Robert?” Lucy asks.
He nods. “Robert should be here, celebrating this with me. He would've enjoyed building things for the nursery. The things he could've taught...most of the things, anyway--”
Wyatt sighs through his nose. As he stares into his cup, Lucy puts hers on the little table in front of them and embraces him. He mumbles an apology and she kisses him.
“None of that, now, love. I know it's stiil very hard for you, even after two years. I can't begin to imagine what it's like, knowing you two were so close.”
It's like losing a limb,” Wyatt tries. “Worse... I-I-- It's much worse than that, but the feeling of something being cut away from me is close, and fleeting moments when I feel him beiing there, just beyond the edge my vision, is always so... It's maddening. Sometimes, I miss the hallucinations. I worry they might come back and that I'll wind up back in the madhouse.”
“Shhh.” Lucy strokes his hair. “None of that, now, Wyatt. None of that. This is different from what you had straight after you were home from the war. This is normal. Natural.”
“What is it, then?”
He sounds almost like a little boy then. It makes her heart ache for him and his heavy loss.
“Grief, love. That's all. You're in the grip of grief; learning to let go, to move on--”
“To forget?”
“The pain, perhaps, but even that doesn't ever completely go away.” Lucy pauses, her eyes drifting to the moon outside. It's a little further on in the sky than when she last looked, but something in its glow is comforting. “The important thing, Wyatt, is that your good memories grow stronger so the pain can be less. Robert would want that for you; happiness, a good life.”
“My son...” Wyatt puts his hand to Lucy's belly again. Despite his sadness, he smiles. “Or my daughter. I sort of hope for a daughter, to break with tradition.”
“Your family line is much too in love with tradition,” Lucy says. “And you would still try to name her Robert.”
“Well...as a middle name...or as Roberta. Roberta is a very nice name...”
“Horrid. I had a terrible old maid of a teacher named Roberta. I will not doom my children to that. Oh!”
“I felt it,” Wyatt says, feeling the kicks. “I think the baby agrees.”
“I very much think so, too.” Lucy rests her hand over her husband's. “To think, this will be our life soon, this precious child; it baffles my very senses. I am becoming something new. I am starting a new life with old memories. It's very strange.”
“It is,” Wyatt says. “But...I believe it be a good life.”
“The best life,” Lucy says. “For both of us.”
Wyatt kisses her gently. “For all three of us”
Wyatt Amherst turns over and finds he is alone in bed. He opens one tired eye and fumbles 'round his night table for his glasses. He finds his lamp first and turns it on, blinking away the shock of sudden light. The blurred secrets of the clock face becomes clearer as he sits up and puts his glasses on.
Four o'clock.
It is four o'clock in the morning and Lucinda is not in bed. Wyatt puts the clock down. He opens the drawer of his night table and pulls on the pair of socks he took off before falling asleep earlier that night. Even though it is nearing summer, his years in the war--and his months kept prisoner in a camp--have done something to his feet. The floor always feels colder to him than to everyone else. Perhaps it goes even further back, all the way to his childhood. Each winter seemed worst than the one before it, and after his parents died, when it was only him and his brother, the winter immediately following was the worst ever in his young life. Now he carries winter everywhere he steps, but the socks help a little.
Oh, and tea. Tea also helps fight the winter, and as Wyatt creeps out of bed and down the stairs, he has a feeling (more of an instinct, really) that his wife is making tea right now, in their little kitchen. Or perhaps she's already made it, depending on how long she's been out of bed. Tea! These days, she takes it with lots of mint in it; very flavorful, like Robert used to insist on as a child. (That only makes it fitting, then, doesn't it? That he should be remembered in a namesake?) But is it tea for one or two?
Or, perhaps, is it for three? Wyatt creeps around to the lounge at the front of the house. There he finds his wife, his Lucy, reclining on their longest sofa, watching the window and sipping quietly at tea. Outside the moon hangs full, large and bright in the sky. It filters in and makes her skin glow, makes her seem divine. It seems to give her rounded belly some new amazing dimension, as something sacred.
“Couldn't sleep?” Wyatt asks.
Lucy smiles into her teacup. “He was keeping me awake with dreams.”
He. Their son. Their only, if tradition (and solely tradition, not these silly stories of curses) held within his family's line. Many generations had only given birth to one son, and tragedy always befell the father. But that seemed to change with Wyatt and his brother--at least, in the number of sons. But their parents had gotten caught in the whooping cough that carved through their village. It was disease that took them, nothing more.
Wyatt wanted a big family, and Lucy came from one and wanted one of her own. They will have it, he believes this, and it starts with this first child.
“What sort of dreams were they?” he asks.
“Pleasant dreams.” Lucy continues to sip at her tea. “Dreams of being in a meadow--oh!”
“Is he kicking?” Wyatt draws closer, settles next to her. “Are you in any pain?”
“No, it's just--yes, he's kicking quite a bit.” She takes his hand and presses it to a spot on the left side of her belly. “Here, he's very fond of this spot right here.”
Her husband chuckles. “So he is! He's a strong one...”
“That he is. He's like his father there.”
“Or his mother. Or one of his uncles... Robert had a kick like a horse when we were children; only got more powerful as he got older, to about the power of three horses.”
“I remember,” Lucy says.
Wyatt reflects surprise. “You do?”
“Of course! Don't you remember? You and Robert used to get into fights all the time with the neighborhood boys--and each other.” She laughs a little. “That's how you wound up at the pub in the first place, isn't it? Liam always likes to tell the story...”
“It was a fair enough fight,” Wyatt says, readjusting his glasses, “but I still think he cheated a bit. Somewhere...”
Lucy shakes her head, returning her attention to her tea. Wyatt pours himself a cup, blinking a little at how strongly the mint flavoring comes through on the first sip. Robert would have enjoyed it, would have probably laughed at Wyatt for looking so startled when he prefers his Earl Grey to be quite strong--
“I miss him,” Wyatt says softly.
“Robert?” Lucy asks.
He nods. “Robert should be here, celebrating this with me. He would've enjoyed building things for the nursery. The things he could've taught...most of the things, anyway--”
Wyatt sighs through his nose. As he stares into his cup, Lucy puts hers on the little table in front of them and embraces him. He mumbles an apology and she kisses him.
“None of that, now, love. I know it's stiil very hard for you, even after two years. I can't begin to imagine what it's like, knowing you two were so close.”
It's like losing a limb,” Wyatt tries. “Worse... I-I-- It's much worse than that, but the feeling of something being cut away from me is close, and fleeting moments when I feel him beiing there, just beyond the edge my vision, is always so... It's maddening. Sometimes, I miss the hallucinations. I worry they might come back and that I'll wind up back in the madhouse.”
“Shhh.” Lucy strokes his hair. “None of that, now, Wyatt. None of that. This is different from what you had straight after you were home from the war. This is normal. Natural.”
“What is it, then?”
He sounds almost like a little boy then. It makes her heart ache for him and his heavy loss.
“Grief, love. That's all. You're in the grip of grief; learning to let go, to move on--”
“To forget?”
“The pain, perhaps, but even that doesn't ever completely go away.” Lucy pauses, her eyes drifting to the moon outside. It's a little further on in the sky than when she last looked, but something in its glow is comforting. “The important thing, Wyatt, is that your good memories grow stronger so the pain can be less. Robert would want that for you; happiness, a good life.”
“My son...” Wyatt puts his hand to Lucy's belly again. Despite his sadness, he smiles. “Or my daughter. I sort of hope for a daughter, to break with tradition.”
“Your family line is much too in love with tradition,” Lucy says. “And you would still try to name her Robert.”
“Well...as a middle name...or as Roberta. Roberta is a very nice name...”
“Horrid. I had a terrible old maid of a teacher named Roberta. I will not doom my children to that. Oh!”
“I felt it,” Wyatt says, feeling the kicks. “I think the baby agrees.”
“I very much think so, too.” Lucy rests her hand over her husband's. “To think, this will be our life soon, this precious child; it baffles my very senses. I am becoming something new. I am starting a new life with old memories. It's very strange.”
“It is,” Wyatt says. “But...I believe it be a good life.”
“The best life,” Lucy says. “For both of us.”
Wyatt kisses her gently. “For all three of us”