Page 12
Epilogue
“Ok, keep your eyes closed,” Nixon says as I shuffle through the door, my hands out to keep from knocking into a wall. “Are they closed?”
“They’re closed,” I assure him.
“Ok, open,” he says.
The walls are a soft butter yellow. Against one wall is a gorgeous, handmade white wood crib, with wide, modern slats. The polished concrete floor has mostly disappeared beneath an expansive gray and white striped rug. Soft gray drapes hang from either side of the floor-to-ceiling windows, ready to be pulled across to plunge the room into darkness. There’s a wire basket in one corner overflowing with stuffed animals. A white bookcase is nearly exploding with picture books and board books and a first edition hardcover set of the Harry Potter books. There are framed black and white photos covering the wall, of our wedding up at the Cabin in Maine, and of Nixon’s hands resting on my pregnant belly.
I turn and see Nixon standing in the doorway, holding Noah, who is fast asleep in his arms.
“I can’t believe you did all this,” I tell him as I wander the room, running my fingers over an enormous stuffed giraffe that takes up residence in one corner.
“Well, you decorated the rest of the house, so I had to do something for you,” he says, his voice low so as not to disturb our three-day-old son. When I’d left the apartment just the other day, my contractions picking up in speed and intensity, I still hadn’t seen the nursery Nixon promised me. He’d kept the door shut, adamant it be a surprise. I never imagined it would be quite this perfect.
I stop and glance and a black and white photo taken during our rehearsal dinner. Nixon and I are standing up on a small stage. The photo was taken from the back. You can see his arm around my waist, his hand resting on my hip. I’ve got my head tilted onto his shoulder. We’re both raising champagne glasses to the crowd laid out before us, of family and friends (and a few business associates who had to be invited, of course). The photo is clear, and you can see how relaxed Nixon is. There’s not a tense muscle in his body as he gazes out on the crowd there to celebrate our love.
Shortly after that first disastrous visit to his parents’ house, Nixon agreed to get help. We found him an amazing psychologist, who worked with a psychiatrist to prescribe him medication to manage his anxiety. He’ll still get nervous in big crowds, mostly for things related to Scour (the bigger the financial outcome of the event, the bigger the burden), but for the most part he’s managed to keep his PTSD in check.
And with that, came his ability to let go of his need for solitude and silence. His apartment no longer needed to be a prison to protect him from the world.
I started ordering furniture. I bought groceries and started cooking in his kitchen. I hung art on the walls, and laid rugs over the floors. I had bookcases delivered and filled them with our favorite books. It turned out Nixon was a great reader, he’d always just kept his library confined to his tablet. I took great pleasure in surprising him with a physical library of all his favorite books.
And as a final testament to all the ways he’d opened up in the last year, now we were welcoming a new little life into this home we’d created. Noah was born on a perfectly sunny, warm July day, with Nixon holding my hand and coaching me through the entire delivery.
And now we were three.
The door buzzes.
“Who are we expecting?” I ask, my eyes on Noah. But he doesn’t stir.
“Oh, Elise and Colin asked if they could stop by and bring dinner for our first night home,” Nixon says. He passes the baby to me, then heads for the door.
Colin and Elise met at our engagement party, and they’ve been together ever since. Elise doesn’t know, but I went ring shopping with Colin just last week to help him pick out the perfect thing. Elise is starting law school at Harvard this fall, and Colin is at Scour full-time, developing apps with the code team. I can’t wait to help her plan her wedding.
As for me, I’m on maternity leave from my job with the Governor’s office. Turns out my passion for research and baller organizational skills are a perfect match for legislative affairs. I love my job, and as much as I’m looking forward to my six months home with Noah, I know I’ll be itching to get back.
“We brought lasagna from that little hole in the wall Italian bistro in Beacon Hill,” Elise says, coming in with shopping bags over both arms. “Plus cannoli from Mike’s pastry, and wine for the mama who can finally imbibe.”
“We also brought another baby gift, because that shop on Charles Street is like kryptonite this one,” Colin says, nodding at Elise as he holds out a pale blue gift bag.
“I can’t help it!” She cries, depositing the food onto the white marble island. “All that teeny tiny little clothing. It’s too much!”
I smile as I watch my friends bustle around our house, now bursting with color and life, as I hold my warm, snoozy baby in my arms. I glance up at Nixon, who’s standing just behind me, and then lean back into his firm chest.
He kisses me, murmuring his love for me in my ear as I hold our child and murmur it back to the man of my dreams.
As I watch my friends chattering away, I feel a surge of hope and love and happiness that I never even thought was possible. All those difficult days of fighting against Jenna and Amber, feeling like those girls meant something to me—could somehow hurt me—those days feel positively ancient now.
I actually don’t know or care what happened to those two girls. They mean less than nothing to me, because I found my life and my place in this world.
And that’s when it hits me.
I’m home. Truly home in a way I never could have envisioned.
What’s even more amazing, is that Nixon is home too. A man who never truly had comfort in this world found it with me.
Tears are in my eyes, but never has a woman cried tears more joyful than these.
For a brief moment, the love overwhelms me, and then I’m laughing, wiping my eyes and settling down for a simple meal with friends and loved ones.
The End
“Ok, keep your eyes closed,” Nixon says as I shuffle through the door, my hands out to keep from knocking into a wall. “Are they closed?”
“They’re closed,” I assure him.
“Ok, open,” he says.
The walls are a soft butter yellow. Against one wall is a gorgeous, handmade white wood crib, with wide, modern slats. The polished concrete floor has mostly disappeared beneath an expansive gray and white striped rug. Soft gray drapes hang from either side of the floor-to-ceiling windows, ready to be pulled across to plunge the room into darkness. There’s a wire basket in one corner overflowing with stuffed animals. A white bookcase is nearly exploding with picture books and board books and a first edition hardcover set of the Harry Potter books. There are framed black and white photos covering the wall, of our wedding up at the Cabin in Maine, and of Nixon’s hands resting on my pregnant belly.
I turn and see Nixon standing in the doorway, holding Noah, who is fast asleep in his arms.
“I can’t believe you did all this,” I tell him as I wander the room, running my fingers over an enormous stuffed giraffe that takes up residence in one corner.
“Well, you decorated the rest of the house, so I had to do something for you,” he says, his voice low so as not to disturb our three-day-old son. When I’d left the apartment just the other day, my contractions picking up in speed and intensity, I still hadn’t seen the nursery Nixon promised me. He’d kept the door shut, adamant it be a surprise. I never imagined it would be quite this perfect.
I stop and glance and a black and white photo taken during our rehearsal dinner. Nixon and I are standing up on a small stage. The photo was taken from the back. You can see his arm around my waist, his hand resting on my hip. I’ve got my head tilted onto his shoulder. We’re both raising champagne glasses to the crowd laid out before us, of family and friends (and a few business associates who had to be invited, of course). The photo is clear, and you can see how relaxed Nixon is. There’s not a tense muscle in his body as he gazes out on the crowd there to celebrate our love.
Shortly after that first disastrous visit to his parents’ house, Nixon agreed to get help. We found him an amazing psychologist, who worked with a psychiatrist to prescribe him medication to manage his anxiety. He’ll still get nervous in big crowds, mostly for things related to Scour (the bigger the financial outcome of the event, the bigger the burden), but for the most part he’s managed to keep his PTSD in check.
And with that, came his ability to let go of his need for solitude and silence. His apartment no longer needed to be a prison to protect him from the world.
I started ordering furniture. I bought groceries and started cooking in his kitchen. I hung art on the walls, and laid rugs over the floors. I had bookcases delivered and filled them with our favorite books. It turned out Nixon was a great reader, he’d always just kept his library confined to his tablet. I took great pleasure in surprising him with a physical library of all his favorite books.
And as a final testament to all the ways he’d opened up in the last year, now we were welcoming a new little life into this home we’d created. Noah was born on a perfectly sunny, warm July day, with Nixon holding my hand and coaching me through the entire delivery.
And now we were three.
The door buzzes.
“Who are we expecting?” I ask, my eyes on Noah. But he doesn’t stir.
“Oh, Elise and Colin asked if they could stop by and bring dinner for our first night home,” Nixon says. He passes the baby to me, then heads for the door.
Colin and Elise met at our engagement party, and they’ve been together ever since. Elise doesn’t know, but I went ring shopping with Colin just last week to help him pick out the perfect thing. Elise is starting law school at Harvard this fall, and Colin is at Scour full-time, developing apps with the code team. I can’t wait to help her plan her wedding.
As for me, I’m on maternity leave from my job with the Governor’s office. Turns out my passion for research and baller organizational skills are a perfect match for legislative affairs. I love my job, and as much as I’m looking forward to my six months home with Noah, I know I’ll be itching to get back.
“We brought lasagna from that little hole in the wall Italian bistro in Beacon Hill,” Elise says, coming in with shopping bags over both arms. “Plus cannoli from Mike’s pastry, and wine for the mama who can finally imbibe.”
“We also brought another baby gift, because that shop on Charles Street is like kryptonite this one,” Colin says, nodding at Elise as he holds out a pale blue gift bag.
“I can’t help it!” She cries, depositing the food onto the white marble island. “All that teeny tiny little clothing. It’s too much!”
I smile as I watch my friends bustle around our house, now bursting with color and life, as I hold my warm, snoozy baby in my arms. I glance up at Nixon, who’s standing just behind me, and then lean back into his firm chest.
He kisses me, murmuring his love for me in my ear as I hold our child and murmur it back to the man of my dreams.
As I watch my friends chattering away, I feel a surge of hope and love and happiness that I never even thought was possible. All those difficult days of fighting against Jenna and Amber, feeling like those girls meant something to me—could somehow hurt me—those days feel positively ancient now.
I actually don’t know or care what happened to those two girls. They mean less than nothing to me, because I found my life and my place in this world.
And that’s when it hits me.
I’m home. Truly home in a way I never could have envisioned.
What’s even more amazing, is that Nixon is home too. A man who never truly had comfort in this world found it with me.
Tears are in my eyes, but never has a woman cried tears more joyful than these.
For a brief moment, the love overwhelms me, and then I’m laughing, wiping my eyes and settling down for a simple meal with friends and loved ones.
The End