though, what he might have meant. I spent all those years with him assuming that I was what I was doing and that I was doing what I was. But now I’ve done something that must be different from what I am, I cannot be a person who would do that. So maybe that’s sort of what he meant. Although nothing so drastic, I’m sure.
“You want kids?”
“Well yes, I suppose so.” It was not a matter of longing for children, no maternal yearnings and growlings deep in my body somewhere; only an assumption. Children appeared in people’s lives, the order of things, and I supposed that in the order of things they would appear in mine. What was inconceivable, although becoming less so with Harry in my livingroom when he could have been other places, was the gap between who I was and getting there.
“I can see you as a mother. You’d be a good one.”
Possibly that was true.
Other nights, other questions. “Tell me about your family,” he demanded, and I did what I could.
“It doesn’t sound to me as if you like them much.”
“But of course I love them.” Startled. “They’re my family.”
“Maybe. But it doesn’t sound as though you like them.”
He tried to make me see these differences: between being and doing, liking and loving. He was much wiser than I.
He always seemed to see things more clearly. He wasn’t afraid. Except once, he was afraid.
His eyes were open and he was looking at me. “You don’t like talking about yourself, do you? You’re shy.”
It was the kindness, the rare gentleness on his face, the care, that did it.
“I don’t know how.”
That just came blurting out, and the words hung there all by themselves. It shook me, hearing the echoes of them. There was some great rock lodged in my chest that had been there as long as I could remember, so that I had taken its weight for granted, and all of a sudden it was breaking into splinters and pieces were flying loose and the weight was gone and I was trembling, my face was all screwing up on itself and tears were pouring down it, out of my control.
“Hey!” He must have been astounded. “What’s the matter? Edna? What is it?” His arms were around me, a hand was pressing my face into his shoulder and he was rocking me back and forth, back and forth, crooning, “Hey, hey, it’s all right,” a lullaby, letting me weep.
Oh, sometimes I had cried—as a child for hurt knees, in my teens for loneliness—but never before like this, not with my whole body wrenching like some kind of fit, tears flushing all my veins and arteries. It hurt, and I wanted to stop; but also didn’t want to, the rocking and crooning were pleasant and comforting and kept me safe while I cried. It went on and on while I thought, “Oh God, it’s so awful,” by which I meant everything, I think, up till then, and also, “This is so nice.” It made it hard to stop, but finally the tears hit bone and finished, and I felt limp and weary and was hiccuping as well. I thought, “I must really trust him to be able to do this.” And then thought, “So I must really love him.” I’d only permitted that word in fantasy before, made-up conversations, drifting off to sleep alone.
I straightened, wiped my face. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I must look awful.” I didn’t want him to see me ugly, now that I was alert to love right here in the flesh. One of the things I understood was looking one’s best in order to get love in return.
“You look fine.” He was stroking my hair, and down along my shoulder and my arm. His voice was so gentle. If mine was shaken, his was kind.
I think now that if he had never seen me weep, we never might have married. I think it made that difference.
Later, I could say to him, without a tremor or a hint of tears, “You know, I’ve never heard anybody in my family say, ‘I love you.’ Nobody has ever said it.” I now found that strange, although it hadn’t occurred to me quite that way before. Now I could see because I
“You want kids?”
“Well yes, I suppose so.” It was not a matter of longing for children, no maternal yearnings and growlings deep in my body somewhere; only an assumption. Children appeared in people’s lives, the order of things, and I supposed that in the order of things they would appear in mine. What was inconceivable, although becoming less so with Harry in my livingroom when he could have been other places, was the gap between who I was and getting there.
“I can see you as a mother. You’d be a good one.”
Possibly that was true.
Other nights, other questions. “Tell me about your family,” he demanded, and I did what I could.
“It doesn’t sound to me as if you like them much.”
“But of course I love them.” Startled. “They’re my family.”
“Maybe. But it doesn’t sound as though you like them.”
He tried to make me see these differences: between being and doing, liking and loving. He was much wiser than I.
He always seemed to see things more clearly. He wasn’t afraid. Except once, he was afraid.
His eyes were open and he was looking at me. “You don’t like talking about yourself, do you? You’re shy.”
It was the kindness, the rare gentleness on his face, the care, that did it.
“I don’t know how.”
That just came blurting out, and the words hung there all by themselves. It shook me, hearing the echoes of them. There was some great rock lodged in my chest that had been there as long as I could remember, so that I had taken its weight for granted, and all of a sudden it was breaking into splinters and pieces were flying loose and the weight was gone and I was trembling, my face was all screwing up on itself and tears were pouring down it, out of my control.
“Hey!” He must have been astounded. “What’s the matter? Edna? What is it?” His arms were around me, a hand was pressing my face into his shoulder and he was rocking me back and forth, back and forth, crooning, “Hey, hey, it’s all right,” a lullaby, letting me weep.
Oh, sometimes I had cried—as a child for hurt knees, in my teens for loneliness—but never before like this, not with my whole body wrenching like some kind of fit, tears flushing all my veins and arteries. It hurt, and I wanted to stop; but also didn’t want to, the rocking and crooning were pleasant and comforting and kept me safe while I cried. It went on and on while I thought, “Oh God, it’s so awful,” by which I meant everything, I think, up till then, and also, “This is so nice.” It made it hard to stop, but finally the tears hit bone and finished, and I felt limp and weary and was hiccuping as well. I thought, “I must really trust him to be able to do this.” And then thought, “So I must really love him.” I’d only permitted that word in fantasy before, made-up conversations, drifting off to sleep alone.
I straightened, wiped my face. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I must look awful.” I didn’t want him to see me ugly, now that I was alert to love right here in the flesh. One of the things I understood was looking one’s best in order to get love in return.
“You look fine.” He was stroking my hair, and down along my shoulder and my arm. His voice was so gentle. If mine was shaken, his was kind.
I think now that if he had never seen me weep, we never might have married. I think it made that difference.
Later, I could say to him, without a tremor or a hint of tears, “You know, I’ve never heard anybody in my family say, ‘I love you.’ Nobody has ever said it.” I now found that strange, although it hadn’t occurred to me quite that way before. Now I could see because I
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