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THE GRACEFUL LIMBS of the willow swooped into the placid surface of the pond with the fluidity of a dancer seeking water. Soft amber and gold light from the morning sun, filtered through the dripping green leaves, glinting off the water. A fish jumped, rippling the otherwise calm surface of the pond with a resounding splash.
Lexie raised her Nikon D3, focusing the lens, taking her time until she got the right angle, just the right light, and snapped the picture. She only needed one shot when she concentrated, when she chose with a careful eye.
She had never been the type of photographer that had to take dozens, even hundreds, of pictures before deciding, later, after pouring over prints, if she captured the perfect one—the “money shot,” as those in her profession often referred to it. Sure, sometimes she enjoyed taking pictures that way, to carelessly shoot then pick through the rubble later, discovering one or two diamonds in the rough. Lexie possessed a natural talent and a honed skill, however, which led to a preciseness which allowed her to capture the essence of whatever subject she was shooting with one a single shot. With one picture, Lexie could tell a story, show a life, a world inside of whatever subject she chose, whether a beggar on the street, a mother with her child, or like today, the mournful song of a weeping willow at the water’s edge.
After her first session with Dr. Heart and her request for Lexie to brush off her camera and start taking pictures again, she hadn’t taken her seriously. She hadn’t so much as touched a camera since her rape. A part of her was afraid. Even this morning as she picked it up, foreign in her hands, the fear that her talent had left her and, suddenly, she would no longer remember how to take a picture, let alone capture still art, sunk like an anchor in her gut.
Drastic changes had occurred in her life over the past months. Some days she hardly recognized herself, and others she didn’t care to. Most of all, she lived in a state of limbo, not regressing back into the woman she was, nor forging ahead either. In many ways, she sensed the lack of progress. She felt stagnant like she had been waiting for a push, for someone to take her hand and guide the way. Part of her wondered if that was her reason for coming home, because all the people around her, her mother especially, seemed apt at telling her how best to live her life.
Sure, she fled to the farm after she discovered she was pregnant because she wanted support. She was broken. She needed an escape, from her apartment—the scene of her rape—and the impression of Brent’s face in her mind, accompanied by the memories of that horrid night. Part of her also recognized the desire to be taken care of. In a way, she hoped her mother would take the reins of her life and tell her how best to proceed, how to breathe again. It seemed, however, Lexie would have to do all the breathing on her own.
Time and circumstance had a funny way of changing things though. When she remembered the reasons she had left ten years ago, they seemed muddled, as blurry as some of her earliest childhood memories. No matter her reasons, the moment she submitted her humble portfolio and received the offer from Pittsburgh Magazine, she had been as good as gone. She convinced herself the job offer was a sign. She was destined for, what she thought at the time, were bigger and better things.
Over time, Lexie realized that as much as she loved her new life in the city, it wasn’t necessarily better, just different. Had she been listened to, her voice heard, she may have found a solution other than running from her problems. She did what she had to because she felt trapped—a rat in a box with no escape.
She went about her life, though fulfilling career-wise, somewhat empty, because of everything she had left behind. Finding herself and building independence came with a price. She missed her family, but even more, the void Elliot left in her heart was constant.
At first, she grieved the loss of the relationship like any other. Then she relished in her independence. She became intoxicated with her new life, but like most things, the honeymoon period came and went leaving behind the reminder of her empty heart.
Lexie moved swiftly around the pond. Her feet squished in the soft dirt where water met land. She moved around the curve of the pond, until she reached the old log, every bit as massive as she remembered. She and Elliot had pushed the fallen trunk into place nearly eleven years ago, just a foot away from the water’s edge, so they could have somewhere to sit as they fished.
They had grunted and heaved, until their faces puffed up and turned beet red, but they finally managed to roll the log the few feet into position. The old trunk looked mostly the same, except the wood had splintered slightly in places, the bark more fragile, hanging in spots like rotted flesh. Moss still covered the length of it, the spot where they used to sit was shadowed with green fur, in the familiar way water, time, and moisture had of making everything green.
With a sigh, she sat. She once thought Elliot was perfect. In the end, this belief facilitated her desire to leave. She feared a life of always standing in his shadow. Everyone loved his easy charm and quick wit. Lexie perceived him as invincible. She thought he could do no wrong and let herself believe she was invisible next to him.
Coming back home, after having found herself in another life and losing herself again, made her realize that he wasn’t perfect. He was just as human as she, just as broken by the absence she left in his life. She should never have left the way she did. She was wrong for not talking to him more, making him understand. All these years she blamed herself for leaving, but recently, she found herself recognizing his mistakes—for listening to her, but not really hearing her. How many times had she tried to reach out and explain to him how she felt—that her life no longer seemed her own?
Somehow, the realization she was not the only one to make mistakes, that maybe she wasn’t the only one to blame for the demise of their relationship, made her feel better.
She had been scared to come home and see him for a million reasons—scared to face the repercussions of leaving. She feared her feelings for him, which still clung to her like a clawed beast, refusing to let go. Even more, she was afraid he may have moved on, that her leaving him hadn’t affected him as profoundly. And she had been afraid of what he would think about her returning home, scared, pregnant, and wounded.
In the times she had seen him since she had been home, all her fears subsided. She saw the same hollow look in his eyes that she felt in her heart. When they touched, she felt his skin tingle under hers, saw the way his eyes softened, and his breath caught in his throat. She didn’t feel any less beautiful around him like she had at first. Her pregnancy and situation didn’t seem to matter to him. He didn’t treat her like a porcelain doll, yet he trod lightly, wary and understanding of whatever pain she may be going through.
Lexie put a hand to her chest and closed her eyes. She thought of the way he pulled her into his arms the other day, his hot breath in her hair, his scent surrounding her.
She loved Elliot Anderson before, in the innocent, inexperienced, immature sort-of-way a naive high school girl loved her sweetheart, but as she sat on the very spot they used to lounge together by the water, something altogether different bloomed inside her heart. Something much stronger than any love she had ever felt before burned inside her.
She loved him as a woman.
* * *
LEXIE SWUNG HER LEGS over the bed and went to the large cherry bureau to get dressed. The absence of nightmares, tossing and turning, resulted in a most peaceful sleep. She didn’t wake, startled by some noise or the other, only to scan the darkness with her eyes, the shadows in the corner of the room, searching for an intruder, searching for Brent’s face. Instead, she fell asleep thinking about how, despite the awful things that had happened to her, life had a way of coming full circle. She was back in Cherry Valley, Ohio—back home—and she had no plans to leave.
She searched through the neatly folded clothes and pulled out a white cotton maternity t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Due to her growing stomach, even the largest of the maternity clothes Heather had given her, no longer fit, causing her choice of wardrobe to become increasingly limited.
She went into the bathroom, placed her clothes and a towel on the rack, and stepped into the shower. She turned the water on, sucking in a breath as it hit her skin like ice, before turning warm. Picking up a bar of soap, she started to lather her washcloth; however, with a loud clunk, the bar of Ivory slipped out of her hands and onto the shower floor.
When she bent over to pick it up, her stomach got in the way. With a grunt, she straightened, once again bending down, but this time from the knees, until she was crouched above the shower floor. She reached for the soap again, but her cumbersome stomach got in the way of every movement. Finally, her fingertips scratched the top of the bar until she succeeded in clawing it toward her and retrieved it.
Standing, she marveled at the size of the hump below her breasts. Time on the farm had drug on, each day a desperate struggle just to survive with the aftermath of what happened. Yet somehow, the days turned into weeks, then quickly to months, until she found herself seven months pregnant, standing in the shower, wondering where the time went and how she became so pregnant.
She washed herself, struggling to reach the bottoms of her legs. Her stomach had grown exponentially in the past week. Even the most menial tasks proved difficult, requiring twice the effort and time. Her pregnancy had always felt like a burden, but lately, it felt more like a handicap. The increasing size of the baby pressed on her lungs and diaphragm, making it harder to breathe. Walking long distances was a chore, as was getting comfortable in bed or even on the couch. Her mother no longer allowed her to help with even the simplest of tasks on the farm or at the market. Any time Lexie showed up to work, her mother sent her packing, along with the advice that she needed to rest.
After Lexie washed her hair and rinsed off, she stepped out of the shower dripping wet. She dried herself, then grabbed her clothes from the towel rack. She put on her underwear, then stood up so she could pull on her shirt, but her movement in the mirror caught her eye.
She froze. Moving forward, she reached out and touched her reflection in the mirror. She had yet to see herself like this, undressed, unarmed. And so pregnant. Since her stomach started growing, she avoided anything that might show her reflection—even the window of a car, so the image she saw of herself now startled her.
Her body had changed entirely in just seven months. Her stomach was round, firm, and smooth, a perfect hump above hips which seemed to have widened and become somehow fleshier. A light brown line stretched from her navel to her panty line, and her belly button protruded slightly from the pressure of the baby inside. Her skin stretched tightly over her stomach, and everywhere she looked, blue veins trailed along her belly and breasts like highways on a road map. Her bosom was slightly swollen and increased a full cup size in the last couple months. Though Lexie had been vaguely aware of this, she chose to ignore it, wearing the same size bra as before, leaving her soft flesh to spill slightly out of the cups. Her nipples were larger and dark. Even her face seemed rounder, fuller.
She turned her eyes away, unwilling to look at herself anymore. She didn’t want to see the changes so naked and raw. She didn’t want to acknowledge them. She thought of how her old life, her old self, had been stolen from her and despaired that her body had to be taken from her too. Inside and out, she would never be the same again.
She put her bra on, then quickly pulled her t-shirt over her head. She peered down at her stomach one more time. She wanted to place a hand on it, to feel the warmth of her own life, as well as the one inside her on her palm, but she couldn’t bring herself to make the gesture.
Squeezing her eyes closed, she tilted her head upwards. It would be so much easier if she could come to terms with the baby and somehow find it in her heart to accept her—even love her—but she couldn’t. She harbored no ounce of motherly instinct towards the babe inside her. The baby was innocent, a victim in all of this, much like herself. Regardless, she still blamed her on some level for being a part of changing her life so irrevocably.
She wondered if one of the reasons she felt so cold toward the baby was because she had yet to feel her move, but she didn’t think so. If anything, the opposite was true. Like a parasite, the baby fed off her body. It was the spawn of a monster, and the thought of any movement within her, sickened Lexie, leaving her grateful she had yet to feel the flutter of life inside her.
Dr. McMillan, and even her mother, thought she was in denial, that she didn’t feel movement because psychologically she didn’t want to acknowledge the existence of the baby. Maybe they were right. If she couldn’t even look at herself in the mirror, to acknowledge the state of her pregnancy, how was she supposed to acknowledge the life that grew inside her?
She pulled her jeans on and left the bathroom. She tried to steer her thoughts in another direction because her good mood had dissipated some.
Her mother called her yesterday (knowing Lexie had nothing better to do) and asked her to “horse sit” Penny, the pregnant mare. Apparently, she wasn’t due for a few more weeks, but her mother thought she would go into labor sooner.
The combination of her mother’s knowledge and experience (and a sixth sense that couldn’t be matched), plus the fact that Penny showed a lot of the signs (a waxy colostrum gathered on her teats, her udders were full, the muscles under her tail were relaxed, yesterday she had been sweating profusely and had been restless), led Gail to believe they would have the new foal sooner rather than later. Lexie’s job was to keep an eye on her and call Gail if anything happened.
Lexie walked down the hall towards the kitchen, the cream ceramic tile cool under her feet. She made herself a pot of decaf coffee and debated on calling Elliot. If she had to sit around on the farm all day, the company would be nice—especially Elliot’s company.
She picked up the cordless phone and dialed the numbers she remembered by heart and smiled. She hadn’t looked forward to anything in a long time, but as she pictured his perfect face, his gleaming smile, golden curls, and blue eyes, she felt a quiet anticipation for the day ahead.