My Beloved is Mine

Jude Clee

H e hires a photographer. I’m not supposed to know, but it’s hard to miss the six-foot-tall hipster lugging expensive equipment behind us. It’s the #nyctrip that I’ve been hyping up for months, analyzing and dissecting the implications in my group text (omg you think he’s gonna? idk don’t jinx it!).

He leads me through the park, stopping at a quaint stone bridge, a mismatch of amber, gray, and copper pebbles. A street performer strums the first chords of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” and I know it’s so basic, but we always joke that it’s “our” song, ever since that semi-disastrous karaoke date. He gets down on one knee, eyes sparkling in the evening sun, and holds out a perfect diamond nestled between gold and emerald petals.

It’s all so adorably cottagecore that I could die.

The likes come flooding in as soon as I post it (#shesaidyes #futuremrandmrs). I’m not sure how long I lie there, scrolling through the myriad of replies, my phone’s blue light keeping me up.

When I finally fall asleep, I dream of a pair of eyes, so light they’re practically colorless, hovering directly over my face. They never blink. I try to speak but I can’t. I try to move but I’m stuck. I read about sleep paralysis on reddit, and this kind of feels like that halfway state between waking and dreaming. I just wish the eyes would blink.

The next morning, I wake up with the hint of a headache. As I get into the shower, I notice two red dots on my arm, like little bug bites, so small that I almost miss them.

O ctober is all booked (figures), so we settle for early November. The weather cooperates – I’d die if we had to use a canopy. We pose for photographs by the charmingly rustic barn, surrounded by crisp, golden wheat fields. My colors are marigold, terracotta, and burgandy, the perfect autumn trifecta. We divide them evenly among the nine bridesmaids’ dresses, with three girls in each color.

My vows are filled with coffee dates and summer evenings snuggled by the firepit. His vows describe a life together with Smokey, our half-blind cat, and the dogs we’ll rescue; the children with his name and my smile, growing up surrounded by maples and elms and a big backyard to explore. When I look into his beautiful blue eyes I can almost see it.

The cake is pumpkin spice with cream cheese icing. I catch a mischievous glint in my dear husband’s eyes as we cut into it. Uh-oh. He said he wouldn’t. We talked about this; I explicitly told him no cake smashing. I open my mouth but everything goes black. Cake crumbs tumble down my face, into my cleavage, staining my dress, my wedding dress. Laughter erupts around me.

“Now you’ve done it,” Dad chuckles. I can feel eyes on me like mosquitos swarming a Fourth of July cookout.

“Babe…” Dear Husband starts.

I almost trip on my hem as I rush to the ladies’ room. The swinging door cuts off his “Honey, wait!” I hold in my sobs until I’m in front of the sink, staring at my ruined reflection.

“How could he? He ruined it!”

“He’s a jerk,” Becky says. My bridesmaids swarm me like a flock of mother hens, brushing off the cake crumbs, rubbing away the icing smudges.

“It’s ruined!” I howl. “Everything’s ruined!”

“No it isn’t,” Alex says. “It’s a beautiful wedding. Don’t let one dick moment ruin your special day.”

“Trust me, no one’s even going to remember it,” Lauren says.

“Really?” I sniff.

“Yeah, really,” Alex says. “You know how guys are. He probably thought he was being funny.”

Am I overreacting? Am I the one ruining my own perfect day?

“There,” Becky says, wiping away the last bits of cake. “Good as new. Hey, are those mosquito bites?”

I yank my arm back. “Must be a rash from the wheat.”

The door swings open and Becky rounds on Dear Husband. “You are such an asshole.”

While I appreciate the support, part of me rebels, the loyal don’t-shit-talk-my-man part.

“I know, I know.” He holds up his hands, mea culpa. “Babe, can we talk? Privately?”

The girls glance at me. I nod, and they leave.

“Honestly, honey, I thought you’d laugh—”

“But I already told you no!” my voice rises to a whine. I sound like a little kid, but I don’t care.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he says. He opens his arms wide. I fall forward, engulfed by him. “I promise I’ll be more considerate next time.”

“That’s all I ask,” I whisper into his chest. My anger already starts to melt away.

“Now, come on, beautiful. Your adoring guests await.”

We leave the women’s room, arm in arm, like a prince escorting his princess to the grand ball.

That night, in the bed of the honeymoon suite, I dream of the eyes again. They lean closer, like an invisible face perched only a few inches over mine. The eyes are so cloudy I can’t tell if they are hazel or gray. They never blink. I try to ask what it wants, but my mouth is as frozen as the rest of me.

“Come on, sleepyhead. You need to get up.”

“Mmm.” I roll over. “What time is it?”

“Eleven. You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to wake you, but… the flight.”

Shit. Only three hours to get ready. I spring into action, feeling so drained, like I hadn’t slept at all.

I tape a chore chart to the fridge. Why it’s come to a chore chart when his bachelor pad was immaculate, I’ll never know, but here we are.

“What are you, my mom?” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. It’s the same snotty attitude of a middle schooler sassing the substitute.

“Don’t act like a baby if you don’t want to be treated like one,” I snap. I immediately feel guilty.

He holds his hands up. “Okay, if it’ll make you happy.”

It does, for a little while. Happy enough to forget the red dots running up and down my arm. I tell the girls I’m bug bait. They don’t think it’s as funny as I do (though Lauren has a dermatologist she can recommend).

Then the dishes glisten greasily in the dishwasher and dust bunnies gather under the sofa. First it’s why-didn’t-you-just-ask. Then it’s stop-nagging-when-I’m-trying-to-relax. It comes to a head over a container of Pad Thai left on the coffee table, which I pointedly refused to throw out until the leftover takeout smell wafts throughout the whole house.

Dear Husband scatters the chore chart into a million little pieces across the kitchen tiles.

“How could you!” I howl. “I worked so hard on that!”

“I love you, babe,” he says. His voice is cool and in-charge. During these fights, I’m the only one who raises my voice – he stays as calm as ever. “But I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

At night, when I see the eyes again, they have a familiar, knowing look. It’s like we’re old friends, running into each other in the dark. I might be frozen, but this time, at least, I can speak.

“What do you want?” I try to shout up at them, though it comes out in a husky breath. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

A mouth appears underneath the eyes. It parts in a smile so broad I can count every pointy molar.

The next morning, there’s fresh dots on my legs. Blood bubbles from the newest ones. I’m starting to think this is not just sleep paralysis.

I ncreased dizziness and nausea lead me to the family planning aisle. I leave the sanitized test by the coffee pot and film Dear Husband’s reaction as he shuffles through the kitchen in his old man slippers.

“No way,” he says.

“It’s true,” I smile behind my phone.

His hands leap to his mouth. His eyes sparkle with unshed tears, shiny and blue. “Honey, that’s wonderful!”

An air cannon shoots out blue confetti at our gender reveal party. Dear Husband fist pumps the air as his buddies swarm him in a flurry of high fives and back pats. I order a cream blanket off of Amazon with Jacob Hunter embroidered in blue and yellow stitching. At the baby shower, we play The Price is Right and Pin the Diaper on the Baby. My favors include blue bath bombs and rattle-shaped candy. Becky posts that it’s the cutest baby shower she’s ever been to.

My body twists and contorts, bulging out in some areas, shedding hair in others. The baby kicks and tries to lodge himself in my ribcage. We joke that he’s trying to steal my energy. I wear athleisure wear and practice maternity yoga every day in front of the TV.

The eyes show up more frequently, but then they say pregnancy causes vivid dreams. They are light blue now, as clear as dawn, and sometimes a tongue snakes out between the teeth, licking the lips. I wake up with red dots up and down my arms, surrounded by blood smears.

“Must’ve scratched myself in my sleep,” I mutter.

“Rub some iodine on it,” is all he says.

Jacob Hunter arrives four days early, with wispy hair and a red, puffy face. Dearest Husband orders Dominos during hour five of my eighteen hour labor; the greasy cheese smell makes me gag. The nurses say I can’t have anything but ice water and ginger ale. “You don’t want me to starve, do you?” he asks. “This is hard for me too. I knew you’d understand.”

He insists on taking pictures. I tell him no, I’m gross and exhausted, the epidural I so desperately tried to avoid only just kicking in. He takes them anyway. Jacob deserves to have his birth documented, after all. It’s a magical, wonderful moment. Only it’s not: it’s agony. When we post about it afterwards, we gush about how miraculous it is, how beautiful and empowering, but it isn’t. It’s hell.

Later, Darling Husband goes home to take a shower and sleep. The nurses insist the baby sleeps in my room. I can barely keep my eyes open as he’s shoved on my naked chest, letting out a low, desperate whine as he roots around for a nipple. In my fugue-like state, I stare up at the ceiling. The eyes gaze down at me, brighter than ever.

“What do you want from me?” I murmur.

It smiles. A tongue pokes out and licks its lips. Globs of saliva dribble down my bare chest.

“Leave me alone. Leave me alone!”

“He needs to eat,” the nurse reprimands me, judgment wrapped around every syllable.

The mouth opens wide enough to swallow me whole. The teeth are as sharp and thin as the needles that penetrated me all day. It clamps down on my shoulder, digging into my skin. I scream.

“It hurts! Get it off me! Ow! Ow!”

“You’re being difficult,” the nurse says. Her face hovers in my vision, eyebrows sloping in two steep hills. She holds a shrieking, flailing bundle. Jacob. My baby. Not him, not my sweet boy, I think, but I can’t articulate through the pain. Blood flows freely. I am one giant, festering wound. All I can see are the deep blue eyes, less than a foot above me.

Jacob’s birth announcement gets 547 likes and 109 comments.

W hen I come home from my pedi, my toes are a glossy seafoam green and the house is a warzone. An upturned cereal bowl sops milk into the rug; the toy box is tipped over, spilling out its treasures; Jacob, cranky and crying, sits in a dirty diaper I can smell from the doorway. Dear Husbands sits on his ass playing Madden.

“Jesus Christ!” I say, snapping into mom mode (Jacob first; once he’s calm and napping I can take care of the mess). “I guess you just ignored my to-do list?”

“I was getting to it,” he says without looking away from the TV.

“You couldn’t even change your son’s shitty diaper?” I shift Jacob from hip to hip, but it doesn’t soothe him.

“Maybe you shouldn’t leave for so long next time.”

I was gone for two and a half hours. My Sunday pedicures and lunch dates are my only me time all week. “You could’ve done something.”

“What’s the point, Babe? You’re just so much better at it than I am.”

That’s his excuse for turning the whites pink and putting a cast iron pan in the dishwasher. As if it’s so hard to google. It’s easier to just put my Airpods in and do it myself. Sometimes I wonder if that’s his point.

“Thanks,” I tell my husband, shifting Jacob to my side. We slowly creep up the stairs, to the cream-colored changing table with the Winnie the Pooh pad. “Thanks a lot.”

He throws the controller down against the hardwood floor. Jacob’s breath hitches, then he screams louder than before.

“Goddammit!” he yells. Spit flies out of his mouth. “Why do you always have to come home and complain? Why can’t we just relax?”

“I’m sorry, okay? Let’s just forget about it.”

And we do, for a little while.

T he red dots scar my arms and legs. There’s even one on my shoulder now – I don’t know what I’ll do if they ever reach my face. Becky keeps saying that I should’ve gone to the doctor, like, yesterday, but I hesitate. I don’t want to explain the dreams.

They happen weekly. Now there’s a shadowy face to go along with the deep blue eyes. It hovers a few inches above me, never blinking as its teeth sink into my skin. Recently, it’s grown hands as well, pale spidery things, that pin me down until it’s had its fill.

A pparently, exclusive breastfeeding isn’t a reliable form of birth control (wonderful). Dear Husband is thrilled, of course (he rarely does night feedings). At the gender reveal party, we cut into a pink sponge cake. I switch #boymom to #oneofeach and order a dozen bows and dresses. Everyone says how lucky we are, how blessed.

Olivia Rose’s grand debut comes more easily than her brother’s. This time I don’t martyr myself for hours, “epidural” is the first word out of my mouth when we reach the hospital. Dearest Husband sneaks me vending machines snacks and Dr. Pepper when the nurses aren’t looking. Jacob visits in his I’m the Big Brother shirt; we pose for pictures with a baby half the size he is cradled in his arms, swamped in a bundle of blankets with a giant pink bow. When we bring our little girl home Dear Husband jokes about getting a shotgun.

Each month, I lay Olivia on a moon and stars blanket, photographing her growth for the world.

We have two in diapers, two breastfeeding, two to bathe, two crying at night, and only two hands to juggle it all. Whenever I have a Netflix break, I’m still pumping, the mechanical suctions working until my nipples crack and bleed.

But it’s okay. I’ve got this. We’re such a beautiful family (everyone says so) and if I can just power through this part, we’ll be okay. I can do this. I’m okay. We’re okay.

I wake up to a sharp pain in my side. I suck in my breath and open my eyes. Blue eyes shine in the pre-dawn light. They are as full as the ocean on a sunny, brilliant day. I try to move, knowing how hopeless it is. Miraculously, my right arm twitches, then stretches out. I fumble for the bedside lamp.

I see the shriek-inducing abomination that is Dear Husband squatting over me like a bullfrog on a log. His arms pin me down, one on each side. He stares straight into my eyes as he lazily laps at the punctures in my lower stomach, my blood on his lips, gurgling and bubbling his enjoyment.

“Oh,” I mumble, “yeah. Of course. Right.” I try to sit, but his weight holds me down.

“Oh, babe,” he tilts his head up. His teeth are stained red. Blood dribbles down his lips, into his stubble. “I can explain.”

Uh-huh.

“Look, honey, you know I love you. And I know you love me. Christ, I know I don’t deserve you half the time – I know that you’re too good for me.”

“The fuck,” I mutter.

He straightens up. One hand grips my arm. He doesn’t wipe away the blood. “Listen, babe, I need this. You want me to be healthy, right? It’s not like I’m asking a lot. I just need a little help every now and then.”

From somewhere outside, birds chirrup. The neighbors’ dog barks.

I grit my teeth, blink back tears, and stare up at the patterns on the ceiling. “Just let me sleep next time,” I snap, hating that tone in my voice. “And don’t wake the kids.”

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