Return from Yukon

I was just confused. "I don't understand you at all," I said, shaking my head ruefully as I stood up.

Helen chuckled softly. "Yes, you do," she said. "You understand a lot more than you think you do." Which, of course, only left me more confused. Why do women say things like that? I left her in the kitchen with her catalogue, and retreated to my study.

Now what?

For one thing, it seemed that the gallons of sperm that Pierre injected into my all-too-willing wife were futile. Someone else's got there first, and by his own contrivance, too. So ha-bloody-ha to him, once more and with knobs on. I hoped somehow he knew it, as he burned in Hell.

I had already decided that I would do my duty by the child if he or she were mine. That hadn't changed, but now I had to figure out what that meant. Financial support, obviously, but that was largely taken care of by the money we had saved. I hadn't thought much beyond that. Childbirth classes? Changing diapers? Going to her soccer games? Vetting her boyfriends, heaven forbid? That didn't sound so terrible, now that I thought about it. It might actually be fun, except for the boyfriends part.

Stay married to Helen? No. What she'd done and what she'd said during the month of hell were engraved on my mind and heart, and decades wouldn't be enough to wash them away. No.

Then what?

I heard a soft knock on my study door.

"Come in." She did, still with that smile on her face. Helen wore her regular nightgown, which fell to her ankles but outlined her shape very nicely. It could be demure or sexy, depending on what she wanted that night. Her attitude tonight said, "I'm good with anything; you choose."

"You don't want to spend all night here, your back won't like it a bit," was all she said. She was right. I followed her into our bedroom. We spooned, my hand next to hers on her tummy. We both felt it at the same time: the little movement that said clearly that somebody was in there, growing and changing and getting ready to meet her parents and the world at large. Helen turned her face toward me and our eyes met. Our daughter. The question was, would we be ready for her?

We talked a lot the next few evenings, discussed every arrangement we could think of, and finally reached a decision. We agreed that our marriage was over. Putting things off would only make them harder, so I would divorce Helen immediately. I would move out and find a new place, but would help her get the house ready for the baby. Helen would have primary custody and Baby Hope would live at the house. I could visit her whenever I wanted, but always at the house, at least until she reached school age. That way she wouldn't have to get carted back and forth between her parents' places. When Helen began her maternity leave, she would live off what we had already put away for that purpose. There was plenty there even if she didn't return to work until Hope was in school.

Our solicitor said it was the strangest divorce he'd ever handled, and I'm sure it was. He did suggest that we write the visitation arrangements into the papers. We hadn't wanted to because we wanted flexibility, but he suggested that if either of us remarried and the new spouse wasn't cooperative, we would want our chosen provisions in writing. We agreed he had a point. Finally he pronounced himself satisfied and told us to come back in a week to sign the papers.

Helen was almost always calm and cheerful these days. She did cry softly when she signed for the divorce, but she recovered quickly. She never showed any tendency to rip paper or cut things, at least when I was home, and even replaced some of the baby catalogues (though I thought she already had plenty). I was still worried about what she might be doing when I wasn't home, so I contacted her gynecologist and described the problem. She agreed with me and gave me a couple of recommendations, which I passed on to Helen.

"Darling, I know you're concerned, but you don't need to be. I'm fine. I have Hope now, remember? Besides, you've seen how I am."

"Yes, but I don't know how you are when I'm at work. I don't want to come home some evening and find out that something, well, terrible has happened."

Helen smiled reassuringly. "It won't, Darling. I promise you. There's no need for me to see someone and create more expense for the National Health."

"I understand, but neither of us is a professional. Look, if this had something to do with your heart or something, you would get it checked out even if you thought it was nothing, wouldn't you?"

Helen started to get that stubborn look on her face which I knew all too well, but I wasn't going to be deterred.

"Helen, this could affect the baby. Please, for her, just make the appointment."

I heard her quick intake of breath when I said "baby;" thankfully, I didn't have to say anything more. Helen made the appointment, and I went with her to keep it. I got nervous when it went past the 90-minute mark, but the receptionist said that wasn't unusual for a patient's first appointment. "Doctor likes to be thorough," she said.

Finally Helen emerged smiling, telling me the doctor wanted to see me. She swiped a kiss onto my cheek before I could dodge, and whispered, "Thank you, Sweetheart. You were right: I needed to do this."

To my surprise, Helen had told him the whole story; that's one reason it had taken so long. He was glad she had come in. He wanted to see her every two weeks at least through the pregnancy just to be sure, but thought she would be okay.

I found an apartment and began moving out that weekend. Helen insisted on helping. "My morning sickness is long gone, I feel wonderful, and you know I'm almost as strong as you are. Besides, I'm happy and grateful that I've been given Hope, even though I don't deserve it. I love you. Now come on, let's move that dresser."

With the divorce pending, we didn't sleep together any more, but I still spent weekends at the house. I wanted to make sure she got to her doctors' appointments, keep track of her moods, that sort of thing.

"Darling, it's sweet that you're so worried about me, but you really don't have to be. I'm a normal healthy woman; we're designed to do this kind of thing. It's all very natural." She certainly seemed cheerful and happy when I was there, and she glowed with good health.

"Yes, but remember, I'm a first-time father, and we're supposed to be nervous. That's all very natural, too."

I saw a shadow cross her face as she stopped herself from coming over to my chair and giving me a hug from behind, as she always used to do.

"I know. Truly, I like it, because it shows me that even though we're through, you still care."

The next few months were the strangest of my life. We prepared the nursery together. I took her to her shopping trips (the catalogues weren't enough, she had to see the furniture in person) and to her doctor appointments. I agreed to go with her to her childbirth classes, and be with her in the delivery room. I didn't wear my ring, though Helen wore hers. With that exception, to all appearances, we were a typical first-time-expectant couple, as we waited for our divorce to come through.

It finally did, with the worst possible timing, as far as Helen was concerned: the day of our first childbirth class. I'd gone to the house straight from work, so I had no inkling that anything was amiss until she came to the door. It was obvious she'd been crying, and I was instantly afraid she'd gone back to her paper-ripping stage. Then I saw the official-looking manila envelope on the hall table, and knew what had happened.

I kept telling myself I wouldn't do this. I reminded myself that we had agreed on this together, and this whole thing was her fault anyway. It didn't matter. Next thing I knew, I was sitting on the sofa with my arms full of Helen, while she wept onto my shirt. When she seemed mostly cried out, I gently put one hand onto her swollen belly.

"Remember, you have Hope," I said.

"Thank you," she struggled out. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... this was just the wrong day for this to happen." She sighed. "Thanks for... for this. And this." She put her hand over mine, which still rested on her belly. "I'll never know how I could... oh well, never mind." She made a visible effort and sat up straight, even favoring me with a brave little smile.

"Come on, Mr. First-time Father, let's go find out what we need to know about this baby business."

Helen chose to work right up until Hope's birth. "Why shouldn't I?" she asked. "I feel great, I'm effective at work, and it's much healthier for me than sitting at home." Then I got the call from her assistant that Helen was in a taxi (no ambulance for her!) on the way to the hospital, and I'd better get there on the double or I'd miss the whole thing.

I acted like every expectant father in every bad stereotype of a movie I'd ever seen, but I managed to get myself there without major incident. I struggled into my scrubs and was ushered directly into the birthing room. Helen smiled as she held out her hand to me. Yes, I took it: this was her moment, hers and Hope's, and it wasn't for me to mar it.

"Sorry about the lack of notice," she said, smiling at my flustered state, in stark contrast to her perfect composure. "It was her decision, not mine."

Her eyes locked on mine as we rode out her contractions. She squeezed my hand as if it were her lifeline.

I don't believe there are words in any language to adequately describe the birth of a human being. I won't even try. They had tried to tell us what it was like in the childbirth classes, but they weren't even close. They were describing a natural event that happens many times every day, all over the world. What I saw and heard and felt that day was a once-in-forever miracle, and that doesn't even begin to describe it.

It wasn't that Hope Eleanor was beautiful. She wasn't. Her face was red, with whitish womb-stuff splotched over it. It was scrunched all up into an unfriendly, almost forbidding, expression, and she looked way too much like Edward G. Robinson. Her hair, what little she had, was completely askew. There was nothing musical, or even pleasant, about her infant wail. But from the first instant I saw her, she took possession of a piece of my heart that will forever be all her own, a place in my heart that she will lose only with my death. 'She is my daughter.' It's such a simple sentence, four words, five syllables. I had no idea at the time of all the ways that sentence would change my life, but I knew I would never be the same again.

I've always marveled at the truly great paintings of the Madonna and Child. She looks so tender and loving, vulnerable yet indomitable, this woman who carries a secret deep in her heart: a beautiful secret that no man will ever know, much less understand. A secret of indescribable joy, flavored with bitter pain. A secret all her own, yet known and shared with every other mother throughout worlds and time. That was Helen, as her eyes and arms and heart held baby Hope. I wanted to touch her, but felt I would be violating something sacred, touching something I shouldn't. I knelt; it just seemed right. One of the nurses passed through my line of sight as she was cleaning up. Our eyes met briefly; I knew she understood. She must be a mom, I thought.

Helen did, indeed, make a great mom. There was a quiet but determined steadiness about her now, a dependability that I knew hadn't been there before Hope's birth. There was a purpose about her. I called the shrink we'd seen and told him we wouldn't need his services in the future.

I still spent every weekend at the house. I could tell Helen was saddened when I didn't use my key, but knocked to be let in. It just didn't seem right to me: after all, we were divorced and it was Helen's house now. She cooked for me while I was there; I did the yard work and the minor repairs around the house: standard "honey-do" list stuff. Helen laughed at my expression the Saturday morning she first handed me the list, complete with "Honey, Do:" at the top of it and pictures of melons all over.

I guess what I was, was a weekend husband without the sex. It wasn't so bad: it wasn't as if I had a heavy social calendar anyway. It gave me time with Hope (she liked me, I just knew it), and we talked about the many unexpected things that seem to come up when you become, gasp, parents. Hope was a healthy baby, and bonded quickly and easily with Helen, but I was going to make sure I stayed involved in her life.

One evening we were watching our daughter sleeping peacefully in her bassinet. She was about six months old, and had the most brilliant blue eyes I'd ever seen. For the record, Helen and I both have blue eyes; Pierre had brown. Ha! Idly, I asked Helen why she was still wearing her rings.

"Why? Do you want them back?" It was the first sign of temper, or perhaps fear, that I'd seen from her in months.

"No, no, it's not that. I was just curious, that's all. I mean, you're beautiful: more beautiful than ever. You know it. You're getting out again; you know men look at you. You can get pretty much any man you want, but wouldn't the rings attract the kind of attention you don't want, and deflect the attention you'd like?"

Helen smiled sadly at me. "Yes, I know how men look at me. But you're wrong, I can't get any man I want. The only man I want is out of my reach because I betrayed him, humiliated him, and drove him away. I keep whatever I can of him, as closely as I can." She kissed her rings, then she stood and picked up Hope's bassinet. "Good night."

I re-examined my feelings for Helen yet again before I fell asleep. I knew she loved me; she said so and I believed her. We were comfortable with each other, but there was no way we were getting back together, and both of us knew it. I would be a father to my daughter, and do my duty to her mother, but that would be the extent of it. The damage ran far too deep. On the other hand, I didn't want to disturb the "weekend husband" arrangement. It worked well for me: I was with Hope two full days every week, far more than many divorced fathers.

Before Hope was born, every now and then when I would look at Helen, I would see something that would remind me of some way she had looked when Pierre was fucking her, and the anger and pain would return briefly. That hadn't happened in the last six months. It was almost as if with Hope's birth, Helen really had become a different person, disconnected somehow from the woman who had betrayed me.

Did I love the new Helen? No. I respected her, and I had no trouble being friends with Hope's mother, but there was no possibility for anything more between us. Did I want her to suffer, or to see her punished? No. I never really had, even when my anger was at its height: what good would that have done me? None that I could see. Besides, who got to say when she had been punished enough? Her? Me? Some set of rules somewhere? I believed what Helen had written about the death of her dream; whatever pain she felt from that would have to suffice for her punishment. I wasn't going to add to it. That was my decision, and I was at peace with it.

The next morning, Helen wanted to explain why the rings were so important to her.

"Pierre told me that after he was through with me, I would always need more than one man could provide, and that sooner or later I would cheat on you. I know he must have told you the same thing, because he enjoyed taunting you. You remember when I told you he was right about me? Looking back, I'm afraid he was, as I was back then. That was part of the despair I felt. When I... did that to the carving, what I really wanted was to kill him for making me that way, or showing me that I had been that way all along. It didn't matter which.

"Then came the DNA test. I still don't think you realize how much that changed everything." We both looked at the wall, where she had framed and mounted the test results, just as she'd said she would. "You remember I told you that meant I could finally put that month behind me? The day after the results came, I burned the carving, and threw out the ashes. Done. Over. Then Hope was born.

"You knew something special had happened. The look on your face as you knelt, and the tiny, helpless person resting on my tummy, filled me with strength and resolve. I know it shouldn't have taken that. If I'd had that strength and resolve before, none of this would have happened. I know I can never make it up to you, but I can and will be the woman and the mother I should have been, for her. So our daughter will grow up strong and loving and true.

"That's why I wear my rings, and will until I die. If Pierre were to come here right now, I would throw him bodily out of this house, or die trying, because he's a threat to my Hope."

She looked almost heroic as she said it. I wondered what Pierre would say if he could see her now. Then I realized it didn't matter, to her or to me. He may well have been right about her back then, but she had changed and grown. She simply wasn't the same woman.

Somehow, Hope seemed to save her "moments" for the weekends, when I was there. Her first words (Mama, of course), her first roll-over, her first tooth (we were more excited than she was; she actually found it quite annoying), her first crawl (backwards, of course). Helen and I shared them all, and we have the pictures to prove it. She was an optimistic, even-tempered little soul who smiled and laughed far more than she cried. She didn't want to be held and cuddled as much as Helen wanted to hold her, especially once she became mobile. There was a whole world out there to explore, and she was ready to take it on! Soon enough, though, she would tire, and come back to her Mom for kisses and cuddles, drowsing contentedly in Helen's arms as if she wanted to stay there the rest of her life.

Helen lived for those moments, I think. I saw the shadow cross her face sometimes when her little Hope would imperiously demand, "Down!" I wondered if she saw herself reflected in her daughter; I know I did. Still, we were raising a daughter who would be just like her, with a little of me thrown in for variety, just as we had wanted.

Hope was three when Helen decided to go back to work. She was a beautiful, active little girl with a sunny, winning personality and a bright, inquisitive mind, and it wasn't just her parents who said so! She broke my heart sometimes with her innocent display of everything about Helen that I had fallen in love with, reminding me of what we had lost. She had me wrapped around her little finger, and I'm quite sure she knew it, but she graciously declined to take advantage of the fact. For now, anyway.

Helen had been working half time for a few months when she shocked me by calling me at work. She never did that; it must be an emergency.

"Is Hope okay?" I demanded before she could even get a word out.

"Yes, she's fine, but something has come up that can't wait for the weekend. Can you come by tonight after supper, around 7:30?"

I agreed and rang off. What could possibly be so urgent that it couldn't wait for the weekend, if Hope was okay? It took me a couple of hours to get refocused on my work, instead of wondering what was going on with my daughter.

As usual, Hope was the first person to see me walk in the door. "Daddeeeee!" she squealed. She ran to me and wrapped both arms around my leg, so I could galumph into the living room with her, as I always did. Helen was on the sofa with her arm around a young, dark-haired woman who seemed vaguely familiar. The other woman turned her face toward me, and I vaguely recognized her from Helen's work place. Kelly? Katie? It was something like that. There were bruises on her cheeks and forehead, and her blue eyes were full of fear. I looked a question at Helen.