The Swan Wife, by Adrienne Clarke. Page 4/8
Husband:
“Thank you for what you’ve given me,” I said after Lena was born. I had feared the birth and delivery would be too much for her, but she seemed to almost welcome the pain. She refused the nurse’s offer of nitrous oxide to ease the contractions, and whenever I tried to enter the delivery room she made a strange, high-pitched shrieking that made the nurses tremble and clasp their hands over their ears.
But when I see my wife with her long graceful arms wrapped around our child I know that I was right. I have, in my way, created a masterpiece. My real life's work began that day in the forest. Sitting in the study, listening to the sound of my daughter playing in the next room, I can almost convince myself that it was all a dream. “We met in Bled on Independence Day,” I tell my colleagues at the University. “The night of a thousand candles…the lake glowed around us lighting up our faces like a Rembrandt…love at first sight…decided to get married as soon as possible.” It is a good story; a romantic story with no cause for shame. I can convince myself for days, even weeks at a time that this is what happened. But then the image of the feather dress will come to my mind, hidden under the basement floorboards, and I am forced to remember my lies.
Walking home after work I sometimes catch myself holding my breath, and the houses and street lights suddenly seem strange and unfamiliar. For a moment I wonder if I have lost my way. And then I break into a run, my arms and legs flailing wildly, until I arrive breathless at my door afraid of what I will find on the other side. But then I see Lena, her hands outstretched, a smile on her tiny round face. My wife is more reserved in her welcome but I believe that she is not unhappy to see me. Sometimes she will smile through a curtain of pale hair, and once I felt the touch of her hand on the back of my neck. I want more, I dream of more, but for now it is enough.
