Friday, September 5, 2014
I love Christmas. I’ve always loved Christmas. If there’s one holiday we could have skipped this week, it would be this because we’ve never wasted a single one. Last year, we were the house to see on our block—covered with lights and nativity scenes and tinsel for days.
My mother started the tradition, always reading me The Night Before Christmas to us on Christmas Eve and letting us open one present each. We roasted marshmallows in the fireplace and made s’mores, staying up way past bedtime in excitement for Christmas morning. After I went to bed, she’d dress up like Mrs. Claus, and Dad like Santa, just in case I’d see them wrapping presents and stuffing my stocking. I did, and I knew it was them, but I loved that they’d tried.
The next morning, I rushed down the stairs, eager to tear through my presents, even though that wasn’t allowed until after breakfast. My dad would get such a kick out of slowly stirring the eggs, yawning widely, and purposely dragging his feet while my antsy little body bounced around the kitchen trying to hurry him along.
We made green eggs and ham, or rather scrambled eggs mixed with grape jelly and a side of crispy bacon, every Christmas morning after my favorite Dr. Seuss story that Mom read to me every night. It never tasted nearly as good as the novelty of it, but to this day, it was still a tradition we kept and dying food was a strange addition to most of our holidays now.
Elly never got to experience Mom like that, and so I’d made it my mission to give that to her. Even after Mom died, Dad and I went all out every year. Instead of waiting anxiously in bed for Christmas morning, I was the one downstairs with Dad, helping him wrap gifts and stuff stockings. I got up early and made the off-colored eggs and savory bacon, keeping Mom’s tradition alive.
Elly’s face when she barreled down the stairs the next morning made every sleepless moment and early morning worth it. I wanted to do that every Christmas for the rest of her life, even if I only had today, and it was only September fifth.
It was a really cruel twist of fate that I couldn’t do this one thing for her.
Instead, I was lying in bed, staring at the streak of morning sun cast against the ceiling above me. Tears streamed down my face, or at least I think they were. My body was silent. Numb and tingling as I slowly regained control of my limbs.
Despite the fuzziness in my head, it hadn’t taken me too long to figure out what had just happened, that I’d experienced a seizure in my sleep, and was waking from it. My stomach rolled with the room around me as I waited for the dizziness to fade away. My arms and legs were a million tiny pins pricking me, and my body felt swollen, angry…unresponsive. Except my body was responding on its own accord, it just wasn’t consulting me in the process.
When I smelled a whiff of urine, I began crying harder. Silent tears turned to choking sobs as my body gave me just enough control to allow me this. At twenty-eight years old, I wet the fucking bed.
“Tessa?” Kyle stirred beside me, rousing at the sounds of my sobs.
I quickly shook my head, or at least I thought I did, but I wasn’t sure since everything was still spinning. “Kyle, please leave. Please leave the room now!”
I could hear the panic in my voice and it matched Kyle’s face when he leaned over me. He needed to leave. He needed to leave now and never see me like this. I’d regain feeling in my limbs in moments, I was sure I would. I’d get up on my own and clean myself, and he’d never be the wiser. He couldn’t know about this. He just can’t.
“Babe, what’s wrong?” He pulled the covers down off me, and I wanted to stop him. I wanted to hide what I’d done, hide what had happened, but I couldn’t lift my arms yet.
“Stop!” I tried again, this time lifting my arm just enough to hold his forearm.
But it was too late.
“Babe? Did you…?” His words petered out as he looked from my soiled pajama pants up to my tear-streaked face. “Oh, Tessa, are you okay?”
I nodded my head slowly, refusing to make eye contact with him. “I’ll be fine. Please, just leave.”
He was climbing off his side of the bed now, and for a second, I thought he would actually do as I asked. Part of me felt relieved, but another part felt hurt. I wasn’t sure how to decipher that mix of emotions.
“Like that’s going to happen,” he scoffed, a slight tease to his voice. He came around to my side of the bed and pulled the covers completely off. “Come on, I’m going to carry you to the bath.”
I stared at him, wide-eyed. The room had definitely slowed, but I was even more aware of my stench now than before. I felt my cheeks flush, my face certainly stained bright red, but his expression didn’t hold a single ounce of pity or disgust.
“Can you put your arm around my neck?” he asked, and I nodded I could. “Good, ready?”
He slid his arm under my back and I draped mine around his neck. His other hand slid directly under my soaked bottom without any hesitation.
I prayed for God to take me right then and there.
He didn’t.
God has a fucked-up sense of timing.
Kyle sat me on the edge of the tub in the master bathroom—a pretty luxurious Jacuzzi actually. It had been one of the main draws to renting this home, and I’d already bathed in it dozens of times. It eased the aches in my muscles, especially when I added in any of the array of bath salts, aromatherapy oils, and other goodies my sister had gifted me.
Kyle prepared it perfectly—adding the calming scents as he turned on the faucet and stopped the drain up with its plug. He lifted my arms above my head with only some help from me, then lifted my shirt off, tossing it into the dirty clothes basket.
He helped me stand, and I clutched the wall with one hand, and his shoulder with the other, as I tried to stay upright despite my shaking knees. He crouched before me, sliding my damp pajama pants and underwear down my legs, lifting my feet one at a time to step out of them. His arm returned to my back and he walked me to the shower stall next to the tub.
He stepped inside with me, not caring that he was wearing a T-shirt and pajama pants, and turned the water on hot. It beat down against us, and we took a moment to adjust to the temperature, but once we had, Kyle moved quickly. I was able to stand on my own now, despite still feeling weak and slightly dizzy.
Within seconds, his clothes clung to his body and I couldn’t help but let my mind wander as I saw his toned muscles beneath the white tee. I tilted my head into the water and he scrubbed shampoo into my hair. He then took a soapy wash cloth to the rest of me, scrubbing me clean.
I stood there, not entirely helpless but not entirely helpful either, as the kind, caring man I’d fallen in love with years ago washed the urine from my legs.
He didn’t grimace. He didn’t frown. He didn’t curl his lips.
I wouldn’t have blamed him if he did—I was certainly disgusted with myself—but it didn’t seem to cross his mind. And when I was all clean, he turned off the shower and walked me to the now full, soothingly scented tub and helped me inside.
I lay under the warm water enveloping me like a blanket, my muscles aching from the seizure already relaxing.
He peeled off his wet clothes and put them in the basket alongside mine. Wrapping a towel around his waist to cover himself, he picked up the basket and left the bathroom. I heard some noise in the bedroom, and it sounded like he was stripping the sheets off the bed. A few minutes later, I heard the laundry room door down the hallway open and my heart warmed at the gesture.
I looked out the window over the tub, high above the ground, Lake Champlain stretched out before me. A lone tear streaked down my face, nothing else left inside me to cry after my sobs earlier.
I don’t know what I did to ever deserve a man like Kyle—so loving, so without judgment. I’d been filled with shame, and in one simple act of love, he’d literally washed it away. Instead of foolish, I felt tender and cared for. It was the sweetest Christmas gift I ever could have asked for.
He returned in a few minutes, dropping his towel and sliding into the tub behind me, his legs on either side of me as I leaned into his chest. His arms engulfed me and I sighed, feeling almost deliriously happy which felt absurd considering what I’d just experienced.
“Merry Christmas,” he said in a low rumble against my ear.
I smiled and squeezed his hand, which was currently resting against my breast. I straightened my back ever so slightly, just enough for his hand to fall lower, covering my nipple. “Merry Christmas,” I rumbled back with a small shake of my ass against his pelvis.
He growled against my ear and I felt his lips move south, his teeth sinking gently into my neck. “You’re making it hard for me to let you just have a relaxing bath, babe.”
“That’s the point,” I teased, wiggling my ass again. “Making it hard.”
That got an appreciative chuckle, and I surged with excitement as I felt just that happening against me. His hand cupped my breast harder, his thumb sliding across one nipple as I leaned my head back onto his shoulder and closed my eyes. His other hand slid south, and I felt butterflies respond in a flurry.
He reached between my legs, finding where I wanted him. His manipulations started slowly, but as my hips thrust against his hand, he sped up and my body responded in kind. The water splashed as the jets pulsed against our skin, while I fell apart against him.
After my body had calmed, he lifted my hips and pressed himself against my core. The warm water swirled around us as we moved in rhythmic waves. His lips traced my shoulder and my hand held tight to his forearms as he hugged me.
We loved, and loved hard, and when we were done, we let the soothing bath drift around us as we quietly held each other. In one simple act, he had reassured me that nothing about what was happening changed how he felt about me.
He still loved me. He still desired me.
In sickness and in health, ’till death do us part.