Love in the Age of Chemicals Ch. 04

Miranda looked at me, her smile contrasting oddly with such sad eyes. Then she burst into tears right in front of me. "Yes and no!" she blubbered. "I don't know."

I was nearly finished with my meal, while Miranda had barely touched hers. She pushed the plate away and said, "I'm sorry, Deke, I just don't have an appetite today."

"That's OK," I said, rising from my seat and reaching for her plate. "I'll clean up."

"Thanks," she sighed, sliding from her seat and returning to the couch.

When I had finished cleaning up, Miranda's voice called weakly from the living room.

"Deke? Can you come sit with me?"

I paused. I had no resources with which to help her. All I wanted to do was help her to stop feeling sad, but I had no script for that. I felt like the wrong person for the job and I wondered if she would be better served by calling Dottie or Jeanine to come sit with her. But she had no one else present at the moment, and, as she would remind me, "It's what friends do." Inasmuch as I considered her a friend (at the very least), I went to join her, hoping it was enough to just sit there.

*******

I sat down next to her as she turned off the TV. Miranda curled up her legs and leaned against me. Taking my arm from between us, she maneuvered it around her shoulders, which felt more comfortable for me at least. Then she pulled a blanket from its spot on the back of the couch and draped it across us. Once we were settled, she pulled out her phone and looked at the blank screen for a moment.

"Is there something I should do?" I asked.

Miranda sniffled and answered, "Just listen, for now." Then she began swiping through her phone, scrolling through pictures. She said, "There's someone I'd like you to meet." Finding one picture in particular, she stopped on it, smiled at the screen, then turned it towards me.

It was a photo of Miranda, taken that day, judging by the outfit. She was smiling and sitting in an old brown recliner. In her lap was a chubby-faced young boy with light brown skin. The boy seemed to be laughing.

"This is Dominick," she informed me. "We call him Dom."

"Who's 'we'?" I asked.

Miranda smiled a little and said, "I'll get to that." She swiped through more photos of Dom playing, some with her, some with a few other children, some by himself. I judged most of them to be from this weekend. Miranda's smile was sad and proud as we watched the images passing by. Then she pulled her phone back and searched for something else. As she turned the device towards me again, she said, "I got pregnant with him around this time during my freshman year." As she said that, she showed me a picture of a slightly younger Miranda, her belly full with child. The photo was taken from the side and she was smiling. I wanted to reach out and touch her. She was radiantly beautiful.

"He was born the next fall," she said, swiping again, "and was adopted by some friends I made at Dottie's shelter." She showed me a picture of a man and woman flanking Miranda in a hospital bed as she was holding a newborn baby. "It's what they call an 'open adoption,' which means I still get to see Dom and he'll grow up knowing me." Tears fell slowly down her cheeks again, but I couldn't tell if they were of happiness or sadness. Miranda was scrolling through pictures of Dom growing up.

"Anyway, I took the next year off school to give birth, recover, and work. Then last year I started studying part-time again, and that's when I had your class."

She searched for another group of photos. "About twice a year I spend a few days with Gina and Andrew - Dom's parents - and their family." She showed me a picture of the couple with four children joining them on a couch. Dom was there, as was a young boy she identified as Ian, a young girl named Estelle, and a baby named Melody. The woman seemed very pregnant. The next image was of the same group, but with Miranda in it. "I'm so glad for those times and that I can be part of his life, but it's always hard, especially after I leave and come back to an empty apartment. I always question whether I made the right choices along the way. There's so much I regret, and I sometimes relive the hard parts of that journey." She turned off the phone and set it on the coffee table.

Then reaching for the bottom of her t-shirt, she pulled it up past her navel. A large transverse scar ran across her lower abdomen. "Dom was a Caesarean birth. And that's why I never let you... or anyone... see this part of my body. Because it's about more than just being embarrassed by stretch marks and scars and a little extra weight. It's about this part of my life that not everyone gets to know."

"And why are you showing me now?" I asked, still looking in fascination at her scar until she lowered the shirt again to cover it.

"Because I trust you. Because I think that, in your own funny way, you care about me. Because you made me dinner without being asked to. Because I just need someone to be close to me tonight. I don't know."

"What about the father?" I asked, trying to judge which of my many questions might be appropriate to pursue and which might cross unspoken boundaries.

"You really want to know?" she asked, her voice cracking. "Or are you being polite?"

"I don't think I'm ever really polite," I replied.

She half-smiled and put a hand on my cheek for a moment. Gazing into my eyes, she looked thoughtful. Then lowering her hand and her gaze, she said, "That's not a story I've told many people. Hardly anyone, actually. Just Dottie. And Dom's parents." Then she looked up again and asked, "Are you sure you want that burden?"

Unsure what she could mean by that, I cleared my throat and replied, "Since when is knowledge a burden?"

"Oh, Puppy," she whispered sadly, looking away and biting her lip. She shook her head slowly and seemed to be holding an internal discussion. Then she began. "Like I said, it was freshman year. I wasn't really into the party scene, but every kid on campus lets loose now and then. I was at just a normal party at some frat house. I was getting drunk, and I knew it. That was the plan. My friends were off doing their own things - some of them looking to get laid, others just trying to get wasted. It was late. I kept drinking and dancing and just having a crazy time. It was a Friday night, and nobody cared about the next day. We knew we had the weekend to recover."

She paused and I tried to picture my Miranda, the responsible, intelligent woman who had taken up residence in my life, behaving so wantonly.

"And that's mostly it," she said. "I woke up on a couch at the house where the party had been. I was hungover and it was late Saturday morning. I ached all over. It wasn't until later that day - once I really woke up and showered and got over my hangover - that I started to feel a different kind of pain and suspected that something had happened down there. I began to recall fuzzy memories of being on my back and of the reek of alcohol and body odor and the weight of something heavy on top of me. I didn't think too much of it until I missed my period two months in a row..." She choked up a bit and squeezed me tightly. "I had been a virgin, Deke. I was passed out and got raped my first time."

Though I knew the appropriate response would be sadness or sympathy, I felt instead anger. My muscles tensed. I wanted to hurt someone. I wanted to hold Miranda and force it all to go away. Such things should never happen. Especially not to Miranda.

Her breathing, which had been quickening, intentionally slowed. "And so I have no idea - no way of ever knowing - who the father is. I was on pins and needles for months, going through the shame of getting tested for STDs. Thank God all I got was pregnant." She sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "I had started seeing a guy not long after the party, and we had been having sex for a few weeks when I discovered I was pregnant. I was really starting to like this guy a lot, but once I told him I was pregnant and it wasn't his, that was over. It was like he thought I was a whore or something." She sighed, thinly masking the bitterness in her voice.

"The worst part of it was I couldn't go home. I had always judged my mom for letting some random guy knock her up. And I swore I would never, ever end up like her. That I was so much better than her. I used to brag to her that I was making better choices - not sleeping around, studying hard, going to college. And then suddenly all that pride looked like hypocrisy. I still haven't even told her about Dom."

From her seated position next to me, she leaned over, rested her head on my thigh, and said, "Rub my back?" I began moving my hand slowly up and down the outline of her spine. "Under the shirt," she clarified. I slid my hand directly onto her skin and continued rubbing. Miranda hummed and said, "That's good, Deke. Keep that up."

After a minute of being gently massaged, Miranda sighed and said, "So that's partly why I came to you when I did. I was low on funds, in danger of not being able to pass my classes because I was busy working, and I didn't know what else to do. Going back to Nevada wasn't an option. One, because I couldn't face my mom. But two, more importantly, I just can't leave Dom. I don't know if I'll ever be able to. So I was desperate. Desperate to find a way to stay in school, to stay in town, and to save time and money. Gina - Dom's mom - says we sometimes do extreme things when we're desperate like that, and sometimes that's what it takes to get us where we really need to be."

I thought about that observation - excessively sentimental though it was - and I wondered where Miranda's "extreme" measures were leading her. Though I knew our current situation was temporary and that she would likely be gone in 18 months, I could not seem to picture my life post-Miranda. I was used to her. But more than that, I chose not to picture my life without her.

"So there you have it," she said, cutting into my thoughts. "My biggest and best mistake. A little guy who's got my heart, even though I'll never be his real mom. I often wish I could, even though he's living a far better life right now than he would be with me. And now... when the new semester is just about to start up... is when it all happened. And I just spent a weekend with them. So I'm a little emotional and you'll just have to deal with it." By the time she finished, her voice was cracking again and the tears were running down her face and onto my lap. I didn't move.

*******

"You know, Deke," Miranda said as she popped up her head, startling me out of the long reflection her story had prompted, "I sometimes can't decide if you're a really good listener or if you're just too scared to talk."

"I don't talk unless I have something to say," I explained. "And I don't usually have something to say until I've thought carefully about it."

She sighed, resting her head on my lap again. "I know. And I choose to think you're just really good at letting me talk because you care about me. In fact, don't tell me if that's not the case."

"I do care about you," I assured her.

"Attaboy, Deke. Good answer."

I thought her mood was stabilizing, but just a few minutes later, her body was shaking again, and I could hear her sudden intakes of breath that indicated sobbing and more tears. Since she hadn't asked me to stop, I continued rubbing the bare skin of her back, resisting the temptation to move to her sides, where I would be able to rub part of her breasts, which jiggled as she sobbed. I felt drawn to her body more now than ever before, but the timing seemed inappropriate.

Her outburst seemed at least a little cathartic, and after a few minutes, she calmed down, resting her head on her arms, which were folded on my lap. I considered our situation for a moment, trying to determine what would communicate that care other than waiting and listening quietly. Asking more questions about her past seemed too risky. Finally, I concluded I could do much worse than to just ask for her input.

"Miranda?"

"Yeah?" she whispered.

"What can I do for you... right now? What can I do to help you? To make you feel better? I really want you to feel better."

Miranda twisted around and sat up a little, ending the back rub. She pointed towards an end table and said, "Hand me a tissue." When she had wiped her eyes and nose several times over, she tossed the tissues onto the table. "Could I sleep in your bed tonight?" she asked. "I just don't want to feel so alone right now," she went on to explain. "I want to feel you next to me all night - to have someone next to me when I wake up in the darkness. And if you don't want to have sex, I'm fine with that. Just... be near me, OK? Just for one night."

My room only had the double bed, though I was beginning to consider whether it might be more efficient to simply purchase a larger bed. It seemed our trend of moving Miranda's bed into my room was going to happen more often than originally planned. But I didn't think we would be moving her bed that night. And as I considered it, I remembered that the campus would be closed the next day for New Year's, so it wouldn't matter a great deal if I had a poor night's sleep keeping Miranda company. But then again, when forced into such proximity during my parents' visit, I had slept rather well.

"I can do that," I assured her.

"What time is it?" she asked me.

"A few minutes past eight 'clock," I answered. "Are you sleepy now?"

"It's been a long day for me, Deke, and I feel drained. I'll just head to bed now. Are you sure it's OK for me to sleep in your room?"

"I'm sure it's OK," I said, lightly touching her hair.

"Thank you," she sighed as she slowly swiveled her legs off the couch. "Don't wait too long to join me," she said as she walked down the hall.

*******

I followed her an hour later. In that hour, I had tried to process what I had learned that evening and how my mind was reacting to it. While I wasn't feeling particularly overcome with lust, I wondered if Miranda needed to feel beautiful that evening. I resolved to take any opportunity to initiate sex with her, though I assumed she would be asleep and such an opportunity would not arise that night. I also recalled her words about her preference for spooning without clothes. Not knowing what she had worn to bed (she was frustratingly inconsistent on that point, I had observed), I chose to break from my habits - for one night, for Miranda's sake - and sleep only in my briefs.

When I slipped under the covers, Miranda was on her side, wearing her t-shirt from earlier and nothing else but panties. I moved as closely as I could behind her, being careful not to disturb her sleep. Then I conformed my body position to hers. I earnestly wished to lift her shirt so that I could feel her skin all the way up my chest and arms. But I settled for feeling her softness in my lazy embrace. I even attempted an innovation, sliding my hand under her pillow and adjusting until she was resting her head on my arm. With that accomplished, I could really wrap my arms all the way around her, holding her as she slept.

I tried for some time - a half-hour, at least - but was unable to fall asleep. I was aware that there was much on my mind. And being in newer, less comfortable circumstances did not help matters. It was the familiar, the expected that helped me relax. But, I reminded myself, this was for her, not for me.

I thought of her scar and of the freedom I now had to explore this previously off-limits part of her body. My hand moved under her shirt and sought the location of her surgery. It was lower than I expected, and my fingers explored just inside the waistband of her panties. Feeling along the rough boundaries of the scar, I ventured farther down, slipping my whole hand inside her panties. I paused, awaiting some response. None came. I moved down, moving past the thin patch of hair. Still no response. I slipped a finger down into her folds and froze. Miranda stirred and I pulled my hand back up. When she became aware of her surroundings, I was rubbing her belly.

She slowly took hold of my hand and pushed it down towards her panties. "Do that again," she whispered. "Please?"

I gave a few slow rubs before saying, "I'd like to do more than that, if that's OK."

"How much more?" she asked, her voice hushed.

"How much can be done while we're spooning?" I asked sincerely. It seemed like the mechanics of sex would be possible, but I wasn't sure.

"Why don't you find out?" she whispered, turning back to give me a quick kiss before she slipped off her panties.

"I'd like you to be fully naked," I told her, tugging up on her shirt. It took a little doing, but eventually her shirt was off and I had my first unfettered access to her body. Naturally, the area that had been longest hidden was the most appealing. And so my hand rubbed all along her smooth, soft abdomen. But after only a minute, Miranda muttered, "No, no, no, no," and guided my hand back between her legs. I resumed slow motions along her slit, eventually hearing and feeling her arousal.

My own arousal was still contained in my briefs, though it was pressing hard against her bottom as we pushed our bodies ever closer. Miranda reached back and started pushing at my waistband, though the angle put the task out of reach. I ceased giving attention to her folds long enough to join my total exposure to hers. When I put my hand back to its assigned task, Miranda moaned and nuzzled the arm she was using for a pillow.

"Fingers," she said. "Try putting some fingers in a little bit."

I did as she requested, but clumsily at first. Miranda would open her legs a little to give more access when something felt good. And sometimes, she would clench up when something felt uncomfortable. I began to see that this by itself would not be a path to completion for her, but it was yet an important part of the preparation. And my own urgency to be joined with her convinced me that her time of preparation was complete.

Trying to enter by simply adjusting my hips quickly proved futile. But Miranda, understanding my intentions, reached down and lined me up properly. Returning her hands to be resting on mine, she said quietly, "Go ahead, Puppy." I curled the arm that was beneath her and was able to grip her opposite shoulder, creating a strong grip on her body that would give me leverage for entry. My other hand held the point of her hip bone. It took three or four firm thrusts, but at last I was buried in her.

I could feel the smooth warmth of her breasts under my forearm. My other hand began rubbing her belly again. Finding her scar one more time, I marveled to think that a baby had been inside her body. That she had been the bearer - the creator - of a human life. I pushed in and held still. I marveled at what an amazing thing her body was. How perfectly evolved to evoke desire, to give pleasure, to convert lust into life, and to turn two colliding cells into a child.

"Tell me what you're thinking, Babe," she whispered.

What words would suffice? "I'm just... thinking of how amazing your body is."

"You think I'm hot?" she asked, wiggling her bottom and sliding along my length a few times.

"Well, yes... but that's not what I was thinking just now. I was thinking about how you made a life. I guess it's one thing to consider it in the abstract, or in general. But you," and I rubbed my palm in circles on her belly, "you made a life in here." Then running a finger along her scar, which was becoming a fixation of mine, I continued, "and that life came out right here." She put her hand on top of mine, and I worried I was reminding her of the very things she wished to avoid that evening.