The words had all been spoken
And somehow the feeling still wasn't right
And still we continued on through the night
Tracing our steps from the beginning
Until they vanished into the air
Trying to understand how our lives has led us there

Looking hard into your eyes
There was nobody I'd ever known
Such an empty surprise to feel so alone

Now for me some words come easy
But I know that they don't mean that much
Compared with the things that are said when lovers touch
You never knew what I loved in you
I don't know what you loved in me
Maybe the picture of somebody you were hoping I might be

Awake again I can't pretend and I know I'm alone
And close to the end of the feeling we've known

How long have I been sleeping
How long have I been drifting alone through the night
How long have I been dreaming I could make it right
If I closed my eyes and tried with all my might
To be the one you need

Awake again I can't pretend and I know I'm alone
And close to the end of the feeling we've known

How long have I been sleeping
How long have I been drifting alone through the night
How long have I been running for that morning flight
Through the whispered promises and the changing light
Of the bed where we both lie
Late for the sky


The irritating call of a morning-show DJ interrupts my slumber and I hear my breath catch in my throat as I am rudely jerked awake. I feel my heart thud in my chest at the intrusion and my first thought of the day fills my head – Shit.

It must be a bad thing when the first thought of the day is a curse word. But, this is my life. In a nut shell.

I roll onto my side and pull the comforter up to my ears as I feel Maria roll over in the opposite direction to turn off the alarm. She swears, too, as she swings her body from the bed. I try really really hard to remember a time when waking up beside her was a pleasant experience, when I would smile and spoon her or maybe even ask to make love to her.

But I think that may have been a fantasy. I’m not sure I ever smiled waking up next to her, or that I was ever granted access to her body so early in the morning.

“Are you getting up?” she asks tersely.

I push the blanket back enough to see her standing before the closet, nude. She hasn’t looked at me as she addresses me. I don’t think she ever looks at me any more. And that is oddly okay.

“Are you going to do anything today?” is her next accusation.

Yes, my love. I am going to get out of bed, take a shower, go to my boring job downtown, stare out the window and wish I was somewhere else. And you?

She turns and I get the full frontal view of her body. She had a boob job a few years ago. I miss her perky little breasts. The new ones aren’t her. They’re hard, they’re unnatural, they feel odd. They aren’t huge, but they also aren’t her. I used to love touching her breasts; now I feel revolt just looking at them.

“What are you staring at?” she snaps and I look away. I can’t even look at my wife’s body when I want to. “Get up and get ready for work, Max. You’ll be late again.”

I don’t care if I’m late. Maybe they’ll finally fire me. I pull the blanket back up to hide my smile as I fantasize about the day I get canned. I think I would actually jump for joy. I imagine myself skipping to the exit of Finegold and Fischer, kicking balance sheets and ten-keys out of the way. The old school financiers would think I’d gone off my rocker and probably call security. Maybe security would shoot me and put me out of my misery. I smile wider.

I hear water running in the shower and I know it is safe to get up. I sit on the edge of the bed and scratch my head. Through the window, it is a bright sunny California day. Nothing new there. I hate California.

I pull open the night stand drawer and pull out a pack of cigarettes. I’ve never told anyone – not even Michael or Isabel – that nicotine to the alien body has much the same effect as marijuana to the human body. No one knows but me. I spend most of my day stoned and no one knows. And who cares about cancer? It’s not like I couldn’t just get rid of it if it happened to me. Not that I would want to cure myself. Some days I want to die more than anyone could ever imagine.

I take the first long drag, hold it until I cough. I feel the tingle spread throughout my body, to my toes and my fingers. Immediately I relax. I forget about Fucking and Fucked-Up (as I’ve come to call Finegold and Fischer in my better moments) and my bitch of a wife in the shower. I feel happy. I care about nothing.

I stick the cigarette between my lips and go to the closet. Maria has claimed three quarters of the space and I have but a few feet for my suits. I give a little giggle as I trust all of her clothes to one end of the rod – she’ll be ironing for days. Which conservative suit do I want to wear today? How about the blue? Or maybe the blue? Or better yet, maybe I’ll be daring and wear the blue. Cigarette ash falls to the floor between my feet and I just stare at it as it burns a hole in the carpet. A little tendril of smoke rises in the air and I wonder unconcerned if maybe a full-scale fire might start. Not that I’d care. But the little wisp of smoke dies a quick death and I am envious.

The bathroom door swings open and the princess emerges, naked and wet. I know she does this to taunt me. As soon as I look – or, God forbid, try to touch – she will lash out at me and I will be in the dog house for the next ten years.

“Jesus Christ!” she shouts, waving her hand dramatically in the air. Maybe she will finally get a part in a movie if her audition turns out to be as good as this last performance. “Do you have to do that this early in the morning? I just got out of the shower and now I am going to smell like a bar.”

I look longingly at the burn mark in the carpet and move for the bathroom without looking at her. As I pass her, though, my buzz gets the best of me and I silently pass gas. I hide my smile as I shut the bathroom door behind myself. I can imagine her face and her confusion as she reasons there is no way I would ever be rude enough to do that to her. Maybe not rude enough, but definitely passive-aggressive enough. I laugh into the shower head.

Until I realize the wench has used all of the hot water.

The buzz leaves quickly and I am staring into the mirror, suddenly coherent again. I’m 27 years old. I look good. I feel old. I pick up a razor so I can shave. I stopped using my powers eight years ago, after they failed me when I needed them most. Now I use a razor. I cut myself. I bleed. I don’t try to heal it – scabs are now a part of my life.

She is mercifully gone by the time I exit the bathroom. Only nine more hours before I have to deal with my lovely wife again.

I ride the bus is silence. Across from me, important-feeling men read the Wall Street Journal. Why? What is so vital in that paper that it deserves being flown across the country and into the anxiously waiting hands of business men on the opposite coast? I have a theory – it’s only to make the man holding the paper think he looks more important. I couldn’t care less about how important I look. But I know with the suit and the Ralph Lauren glasses I’ve taken to wearing that people think me important. Why the glasses? They help hide the redness of my perpetual intoxication.

The office. The desk in the corner is mine. No, not the corner with windows on either side. The corner with a fax machine to the left and a copier to the right. Welcome to Fucking and Fucked-Up. I try to slip into my gray cube of hell unnoticed, but I’m never that lucky. Sooner or later someone will be around to thump me buddy-like on the shoulder and want to talk about “the game” last night – the game I wasn’t permitted to watch because that might bring some joy into my life. Couldn’t have that. Or it might be the secretary from legal who likes to drop things then bend over in front me so that I can see her breasts. Not that I look…much.

And the winner is – yep, the secretary.

“Good morning, Max,” she says coyly, stopping to lean against the flimsy fabric covered excuse for a wall. I give her a smile of absolute non-committal. “You look great today.” I smile again. It hurts.

And here we go – all of her papers scatter to the floor at my cube entrance. I get up from the chair, kneel and start corralling the loose documents. She drops all of the way to her knees and still manages to hunch over so that her blouse separates. Don’t look, man, don’t do it. Don’t – I looked. She does have nice breasts. They look real, not pads of saline like my wife’s.

“I’m so clumsy,” she says as she straightens. I hold out a hand to help her up and she holds it just a bit too long. She’s married. I’m married. We might as well be dead. Not that I’m interested in her anyway. She gives me a little wink – I hate that – and wishes me a good day as she moves on her way.

I turn to flip on my computer and my neighbor’s head pops up over the wall. He’s laughing, his face red.

“She’s been past here like six times waiting for you to get here,” he giggles childishly.

I give a laugh and know that it in no way comes across sincere.

“She’s got it bad for you, Evans.” He howls and sinks back to his seat.

I shrug and look at the picture of Maria I have put on my desk in obligation. She really is beautiful – people stop by my desk all the time and comment that she looks like a movie star. Which is exactly what she wishes to be. And I wish that for her, too. I also wish I didn’t hate her half the time.

I look down at the ring on my finger. Another obligation. Maria never wears hers, says it will hinder her chances of getting a role if people think she is “settled.” I know I wear mine as an anchor, to let me know that I have majorly fucked this one up. I was reincarnated – I was given a second chance to get life right…think I could go for the charm?

“Evans,” my neighbor Ed whispers through the general-issue office wall. “Time for a smoke?”

Why, yes, my little accountant friend, it is. I was just starting to feel sober again.

********

Part Two

I’m Max Evans. Five months ago I died.

I read words similar to those in Liz Parker’s diary once. She meant she’d died literally. Me, I died inside. I’ve been a walking corpse since last May.

I’m seventeen years old. Not long ago, I had the weight of two worlds dumped on my shoulders. Too much information, all at once. Apparently I’m reincarnated. Apparently I’m the king of another world millions of light years away. Apparently I am betrothed to someone I really can’t stand.

And I could deal with all of that. Really, I could. What I couldn’t deal with was Liz walking away from me. She just turned and walked down that mountain, only looking back once so that her expression could rip my heart from my chest.

That was the last time I saw her. She was supposed to go to her aunt’s in Florida for the summer. She never came home. Maria Deluca tells me that Liz has settled in, has new friends, likes the sun. I don’t think she misses me. Deep down, I sense that she is relieved to be living a normal life. I don’t think Liz will ever come back to Roswell. And I’ve accepted that. It’s just dealing with it that is sometimes hard.

My parents think I’m suicidal or something. They keep dragging my ass to a psychiatrist. And my poor sister Isabel is getting dragged along for the ride – if her brother’s nuts, she must be too. Sometimes Iz looks at me like this is all my fault, that my inability to just deal has put her into a position of lying to a shrink. I know she lies. That’s the way she is – she has fabricated some big dramatic story she tells the doctor just to make him think she’s a lunatic. She does it out of boredom, I think. She’s toying with the poor guy’s mind.

But I endure all of his probing questions. Yes, I’m upset about my girlfriend dumping me. Why did she dump me? Because I’m an alien king, you silly dolt. Of course I don’t tell him that. I tell him we just didn’t get along any more. Was it sex? God, I wish.

Speaking of sex, I think of Tess Harding and give a little shudder. My supposed wife. Not in this life. Maybe the last but I must have been a silly dolt myself. I avoid Tess like she is walking Herpes Complex. She’s sneaky, she’s manipulative and I don’t trust her. Part of me is glad that Liz moved a few thousand miles away – I have no doubt that some day Tess might try to harm her if she deemed Liz competition.

I go about my teenage life, just trying to keep a low profile and not fail out of school. I smile to my parents to make them feel like all is okay. And it will be. Someday. There’s a three foot hole inside of me that Liz Parker left behind. Once that heals, I’ll be fine. Of course, I could be ninety by then, but I will definitely be fine.

Walking through the quad at school, I spy Maria sitting by herself eating her lunch. Most people seated alone will immerse themselves in a book to make themselves less conspicuously single. Not Maria – she chomps on her sandwich and surveys all of her passers by. She spots me and smiles, motions for me to join her. I smile in return and approach her table. I feel bad for her. Michael went all Commando and broke up with her so he could be the Universal Soldier. Moron.

“Hey, hot stuff,” she says as she scoots over on the bench so I can sit.

I laugh. She’s always coming up with a new nickname for me.

“You’re looking especially hot today,” she teases, squeezing my bicep. “More pull-ups in the doorway?” She bats her eyelashes and I have to laugh again. She caught me once – doing pull-ups in my boxers in my bedroom.

“Great way to work off aggression,” I tell her and start digging in my backpack for my own lunch.

She pumps my arm again and makes a little whistling noise. “Wow. Who ever knew you were so aggressive?” She winks at me. It’s a cute gesture.

I peer into my lunch bag. My mother packs the blandest food of anyone I know. Either that or my alien palette just thinks so. I must be scowling because Maria asks me what my problem is.

“Nothing looks good,” I explain, then eye her barbequed potato chips.

“Oh no!” She grabs the chips and holds the bag protectively to her chest. “These are mine.”

I push out my bottom lip in a full pout and give her the puppy dog eyes. She bursts out into a girly giggle and I have to laugh with her. She is such a cute girl.

“Here,” she says, handing me the bag. “But you have to give me something of yours.”

Just then Michael walks by and gives us both a sour look. I can literally feel Maria’s mood plummet. I want to rush up to him and biff him on the back of the head. Maria’s a great girl – she pretty, she’s funny, she’s witty, she loves him more than her own life. He dumps her and then treats her like this?

Why am I so pissed?

I look back to Maria and she has literally withdrawn, her shoulders rounded and slouched. She’s frowning. I have no idea what to say to her, so I reach into the bag and pull out a pastry.

“Twinkie?” I ask, my smile tooth-paste-commercial wide.

She meets my gaze and in a flash I see her dour mood slip away and she burst out giggling again.

“What?” I ask.

She touches my arm as she catches her breath. “You have teeth,” she laughs. “I’ve never seen a smile so wide. It’s cute.”

My cheeks are suddenly burning. Oh God – am I blushing? Shit. I am! I hang my head to hide the redness. I can’t recall any girl ever calling me “cute”. It’s embarrassing…in a fun way.

Maria leans over and looks into the brown paper bag. “What else do you have?”

I pull out the contents one piece at a time – turkey on wheat, an apple, a can of soda. She wrinkles her nose at all of it. Looking at her lunch, her nose is still wrinkled.

Light bulb above my head – so bright that everyone looks skyward to see if someone has dropped an atomic bomb. Okay, that’s exaggerating, but it’s one of those ideas that hits so fast that I give a little gasp and can feel my eyebrows literally touch my hairline.

“Tacos,” I suggest and she looks to me in confusion. “There’s that roadside taco stand a few miles out of town,” I explain.

She glances at her watch. “I have phys ed in about a half hour.”

Is she kidding me? I cock my head and give her a look that says, well – are you kidding me?

She laughs. “Well, I supposed I could miss one session of girls only volleyball,” she relents.

I have more than that in mind – I’m not planning on coming back to school today. What are they going to do to me? Anything that could hurt me has already happened.

In the jeep, she sings with the radio and hangs her arm out the side, letting the air current swoop it up then down. She’s put on a pair of John Lennon-esque sunglasses and pulled her hair into a ponytail to keep it from tangling in the open air. I admire her abandon, the fact that she can leave Michael and his hateful looks behind. I feel that Liz is always with me, like a second shadow. Maybe Maria feels that way about Michael, too, but she hides it much better than I do. I know she still cares about him because of her reaction in the quad. You don’t let people you don’t care about hurt you like that.

We eat tacos at the stand and just sit and bullshit. Never once does she look at her watch. Which is a good thing – it means she didn’t really intend on going back to school either. We don’t talk about Liz. We don’t talk about Michael. We talk about music, the movies we saw over the weekend, Isabel and Alex doing the stand off in a much less aggressive manner than the rest of us (my prediction – those two are rolling in the sack by Christmas).

After lunch we drive to the rock quarry, the place where all of us used to meet to talk about alien business. The last time we were here, we’d been discussing Alex’s run-in with Agent Pierce, the whole Topolsky situation and whether she was to be trusted. Alex had had the best instinct on that one and no one had listened. Well, except for Liz…

I look over to the edge of the quarry where we’d last stood together, Liz leaning on my shoulder as we agreed that no one was to meet with Topolsky, that no one new was allowed in. Maria had been the tie-breaker. She’d sided with us, the aliens, instead of following what should have been a natural instinct to side with the humans. I think it was then that I truly realized Maria could think for herself.

She looks lost in thought, too. But she blinks and picks up a rock and hurls it into the water. I hide my grin – she throws like a girl. Which she is – a girl – but she really throws like one. I pick up a rock and give it a vicious hurl, letting out a manly grunt as I do so. My rock hits the water a good twenty feet past where hers did.

She cocks her head.

“It was the grunt,” I explain. “You didn’t grunt – your rock isn’t going to go very far if you don’t grunt.”

She gives a little snort and picks up another rock. This time she goes into full wind-up like a major league pitcher, reaches back and throws the rock. She lets out an absolutely horrid noise that I can’t even explain. So violent is her throw that her body spins around, she loses her footing and falls on her ass.

The rock never makes it to the water.

I can’t help it this time – I nearly double over with laughter. She pouts, then looks at her hand. I follow her gaze and see that she has scraped her palm. A little puddle of blood has accumulated there.

My laugh fades away and I drop to my knees beside her. “You okay?” I ask.

She nods and gives a little grimace. “Nothing a little Bactine won’t cure.” She winces. “That stings.”

I take her hand in mine. “Here,” I offer and run my fingers across her open palm. For superficial stuff, I don’t need to connect. I wouldn’t have done that without asking her permission, anyway. It’s too much of a privacy violation. Beneath my fingertips, her scrapes close and the blood dries.

Maria looks at me in utter amazement, her hazel eyes wide. “Cool, dude. Thanks.”

I smile and pull her to her feet. We walk back to the jeep, chattering. She really is a cute girl.

******

Part Three

Ed the co-worker neighbor has invited me and the lovely missus over for dinner or a party or something. I wasn’t really paying attention because I don’t want to go. I spend enough time with him during the week. He must be infatuated with me or something.

I break the news to the little wife and the first question out of her mouth is “Who’s going to be there?” She’s trolling for agents, producers, casting directors. When I tell her it is the cast of Fucking and Fucked-Up, she frowns and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head trying to come up with a reason why she can’t go. My guess is that severe cramps will besiege her – for the fifth time this month.

I think Ed is crazy. But then again, he doesn’t know that the Evanses hate one another. I wonder if he will have others at his party, people he cares about ever seeing again. Because Maria and I have been lying dormant, not unlike Mount Vesuvius, and one of these days the explosion will be capable of killing thousands. Pompeii for the twenty first century.

We drive over to Ed’s house in silence. I smoke, she makes little noises of disgust from the passenger seat. Hey – I rolled the window down at least. It’s a wonderful, warm California night. A little fresh air will do us good. Besides, I need the buzz, woman.

She checks her makeup in the mirror, runs her finger along the corner of her mouth to straighten her lipstick. Then it’s on to the compact and the nose powder. When did she become so obsessed with her looks? Oh, yeah – it was when she realized she could be “discovered” at any moment.

“You aren’t going to drink, are you?” she asks suddenly.

Why do I need to drink? I’m already stoned. I look at her and don’t say a word. I never drink. She saw me drunk once – when we were 16. Let it go, woman. Or I’ll pull up to the curb and kick your bony ass out.

“I mean,” she backtracks, her voice uncertain. “You never know…your powers and all…”

I sigh and look back to the road. Maria believes that alien powers are like constipation – they build up after a while and nothing good is going to come of it. I think she believes one day I will just explode because I haven’t used mine in so long. That’s not the case – it’s not like an electrical build up or something. It’s like coughing – if you don’t have to cough, you don’t. When you have to cough, your body naturally does it. It’s not like if you don’t cough for eight years that you’re one day going to cough to death. Whatever.

From the corner of my eye, I can see her looking at her hands in her lap. She knows she’s just wandered into forbidden territory. Don’t worry, Maria, I’m not going to bitch slap you for that. Not tonight. Because you smell really, really good.

But I’m also not willing to let her off the hook entirely. Because this is the state of our relationship. She’s a bitch to me. I’m a dick to her.

“Don’t worry,” I say without taking my eyes from the road. “I won’t do anything to embarrass you.”

She lets out a snort. “That isn’t what I meant.”

I give her the “whatever” look and I can see the rage starting to flare in her eyes. But my timing is immaculate and here we are in front of Ed’s house. He actually has a valet and as soon as that suited monkey boy opens Maria’s door, she snaps on the smile and becomes Maria Deluca, the starlet. Score one for me on the evasion board.

Obviously Ed can’t afford this wonderful house with the valet on an accountant’s salary. His wife, Doria, is a publicist or something. I didn’t tell Maria this because not all occasions need to be about her.

All of the ledgerheads are in attendance. Surprisingly, accountants aren’t that boring. They have boring jobs, but outside of the office they are some of the more wild people I’ve ever met. So much stereotyping with the horn-rimmed glasses and the pocket protectors. We live in a cruel world.

I do have to give the little wife credit – she’s still charming to anyone she meets, regardless if they can advance her career or not. She likes to meet people, to talk about stupid things. I was never good at that, I’m still not. So I sit in a corner and smoke Marlboros to get stoned. I watch her in her short red dress working the room. The women like her, the men really like her. I hear little clusters of laughter wherever she goes. It’s official – nine out of ten financial experts adore my wife…I’m the abstaining one.

Suddenly a little blond girl is before me. She has Cindy Brady curly pigtails and she’s toting a baby doll. I smile down at her and she smiles back. For some reason, I attract small children and cats.

“Who’re you?” she asks, her blue eyes round. I guess she’s probably five.

“Max,” I tell her, my ears buzzing from the cigarettes. “Who’re you?”

“Greta.”

Well, that’s an awful name to pin on a kid. Especially in this century. In my haze, I try to think if Greta was one of the kids in The Sound of Music . I think she was. What were the other kids’ names? All German of some kind, obviously. Well, I guess I should say Austrian because the Austrians might get pissed if someone called them German. Just like people from Wales don’t like to be referred to as British. I mean, come on – they’re on the same island…where was I? Oh, yeah, the kids from The Sound of Music . I can’t seem to remember any of them. A Franz in there maybe? Christ, I’ve seen that movie ten billion times and I can’t remember anything more than Greta and maybe Franz?

“Do you want to play with my doll?”

I am jerked out of my intoxicated internal rambling by the little girl, who is still standing before me. I have no idea how long I drifted off there. Whatever.

“Sure,” I say because she is a child and little things like playing with her doll are important to her.

So she climbs onto my lap uninvited. Which is okay, I guess. I extinguish my latest cigarette because it’s bad to smoke around babies and put my arm around her. I take her doll with the other hand.

“What’s your doll’s name?” I ask her, somewhat amused that doll and child are dressed in very similar outfits.

“Blanche.”

I managed to stifle that giggle. And I’m not sure exactly how. When we were kids, Isabel’s dolls had names like Suzie and Rainbow and Chrissy. But Blanche? Who are these people?

“That’s a lovely name,” I tell her. Kids will believe anything you tell them.

Greta chatters on about something only she understands, either because I am too stoned to interpret or she’s really inarticulate. Come to think of it, she kind of sounds like Cindy Brady, too. I wonder if Ed is aware that his daughter is a 70s sitcom reincarnation…

“There you are,” I hear Ed’s familiar voice. I look up at him and he strokes his daughter’s hair. “You aren’t bothering Max, are you?”

I shake my head. “No, she’s fine.” On my lap, she weighs practically nothing.

Ed laughs. “Greta doesn’t like everybody. Consider yourself special.”

Told you – small children and cats.

“You’re a natural, Evans. When are you going to have some of your own?”

Oh. Shit.

An innocent question asked by an honest person. I hope Maria hasn’t heard and I can’t force myself to look across the room to ensure she hasn’t.

“No time soon,” I answer ambiguously. That is not a yes, that is not a no. It’s a response that he can have no come back for.

He nods his head. “Ah, you’re both young still. Plenty of time. Me, I’m an old man.” He laughs. “Your wife’s incredible, Evans.”

I smile in return, hope that the panic has left my face. As he moves away, I look across the living room and I can tell by her expression that she did indeed hear. I am suddenly very sober.

The ride home is silent. Only the sound of the tires on the road resonates in the cab of the Expedition. She’s stopped fussing with her makeup. In fact, she’s huddle against the passenger door, her face nearly pressed against the glass. I glance quickly her way a couple of times, hoping she doesn’t catch me. I would reach for her hand, but the truck is wide and I wouldn’t be able to reach her.

I swallow and lick my lips. “You okay?” I ask her quietly.

She doesn’t look at me, but nods her head. I know she is lying. She’s not okay. She will never be okay. She’s only saying yes so that I will not pressure her to talk about it. Been down this road. Many times.

At home I try to get the door for her, but she more or less pushes me out of the way. She doesn’t want my help. Not any more. She wanted it when I couldn’t give it to her, and tonight all of that was dredged to the surface again. I watch her walk directly back to the bedroom without a backward glance. I don’t know what to do, so I stand impotently for a few long moments. Then I go to the balcony and smoke. I watch the city lights and listen to the traffic below. The only good thing about this apartment is this little piece of solitude.

After awhile, I go back inside. The lights are off in the bedroom, so I undress in the dark and slide beneath the covers. For the first time in a very long time, I want to curl up behind her and comfort her. But I know I would only make it worse. I watch her shoulders rise and fall for awhile and wonder if she is faking being asleep. I’m sure she is. I wish she would talk to me, yell at me, anything. But she just lays with her back to me and there is nothing I can do.

I’m powerless in more ways than one.

*******

Part Four

I’ve managed to haul myself together. My grades are better, I no longer have to force a smile to let my parents know I’m okay. They haven’t allowed me to stop going to the shrink, but I think it’s only a matter of time before the doc tells them I don’t need his help any more. I feel good. I almost feel happy.

I am most happy about the fact that Liz Parker no longer invades my every waking moment. Sitting in my room, staring into my math book, I don’t wonder if Liz is learning the same things in math that I am. Instead, I wonder if Maria needs help with her homework. And that makes me smile. I’m good at math, but I don’t necessarily like it. Probably because there is no way I can use my powers to manipulate the answers. In biology or chemistry, I could always put an experiment back to its original state and start over if I messed it up. In math, I’m restricted to pencils, erasers and calculators like everyone else on earth. I can’t imagine ever having a career that involves crunching numbers.

So I sit at my desk and write and erase and scratch my head. But I don’t really mind. I don’t mind much these days. I’ve learned to let it all go, to deal with each thing as it comes up instead of taking the weight of the world on my shoulders all at once. And I think I should give Maria about 99.9% credit for that. She really has helped me heal. She is such a wonderful friend – I can’t believe I could never see that while Liz was around.

There is a light tap on the window. I figure it’s Michael because he and Liz are the only two that have ever used the window as an entrance. I don’t want to deal with Michael and his poorly adjusted attitude right now. He brings me down. I’d rather work on my homework and go to bed early instead of dealing with him and his commando theories.

But when I push the curtains aside, I see that it is not Michael, but rather Maria. I start to smile until I realize she is crying. I push the window open.

“Hey,” I say, “what’s wrong?”

“Can – I – come – in?” Her words come out with a little hiccupping sound between them.

I nod and hold my hand out to help her through the window. She stands before me, working her hands together, staring at the floor.

“What happened?” I inquire.

“He – yelled – I –wanted – talk – Michael – I – thought – I –“

Oddly, I understand her. I get it. She went to see Michael, he was mean to her and now she hurts. I give a sympathetic sigh and reach for her, pull her in tight to my body.

“It’s okay,” I sooth her. “It’s all right.”

The first thing I notice is how thin she is. I can feel her ribs beneath my hands as I hold her tightly – she seems to have no substance and I feel like I am holding onto not much more than air. Then I notice how good she smells. I can put a description to it, other than she smells very sweet. I become aware that her heart is beating very quickly and that concerns me. She is either very scared or very upset.

I pull back and look into her tear-streaked face. “Did he hurt you?”

She sniffles, nods her head.

Crap. I start investigating her arms, looking for bruises or scrapes. “Where?”

She shakes her head. “No there. Not like that.”

Oh. I get that, too. He hasn’t struck her physically, but the emotional harm he has inflicted on her is worse than any bodily wound could ever be. I hold her close again and she just sobs. It’s enough to break my heart. Her slim body convulses every now and then and I just try to hold her as tightly as I can, to protect her against me. She clutches my back, holding on as tightly as I am. She seems so small, so fragile, so vulnerable. Part of me wants to hate Michael for this, but another part of me empathizes with Maria for not being able to let go after all of this time. It’s been almost a year.

I kiss the top of her hair, and smooth her back with my hands. I think she is calming down a bit. I know it hurts, Maria. Just let it out. I pull back a little and look into her face. I give her a little smile and she attempts to smile back. With my fingertips, I brush the tears from her cheeks – her skin is soft and smooth. I don’t know why, but I lean in and give her a little kiss. I’ve never kissed Maria before, but it seems like a comforting gesture. She gives a little laugh and I smile again, give her another little kiss.

And then neither of us is laughing. I look into her hazel eyes and I see an emotion there that I have never witnessed before. Her eyes are round and I think maybe I have stepped over the line. But then those beautiful, wet eyes drift down to my lips and I feel a twinge in my stomach that I haven’t felt in a very long time. Dare I?

I lean forward, figuring I will meet her half way. That way I’m not kissing her and she’s not kissing me. It will be a mutual kind of thing. No blame on either side.

And then her lips are on mine and there is nothing quick about this kiss. For a moment we both pause, uncertain, then she is moving against me, nibbling my bottom lip, parting hers in invitation. Oh, God, she’s an incredible kisser! I get lost in the movements of her lips, her tongue and I weave my hands into her soft hair. She gives a little cry and I suddenly want to touch her…everywhere.

But as I am thinking about reaching for the bottom of her shirt, it occurs to me that I have the worst timing in the world. I can’t do this to her right now. She showed up at my window grieving over Michael and I just stepped right into the role of “Rebound Man.” We have a good relationship. I’m not going to ruin this because I’m eighteen and hormonal.

So I pull back and she looks at me in confusion. I try to give her a gentle smile and she steps back self-consciously.

“That was…interesting,” I tell her.

She’s staring at the floor. I think she may be more panicked now than when she came to my window.

“Maria,” I say softly. “It’s okay.” Not really. I’m making light of this, but now my own heart is thudding very rapidly and I’m hoping that my physical reaction to her isn’t as obvious as I think it might be. We were pressed so tightly together that she had to have felt that. “Don’t weird out on me,” I try to laugh.

She looks up at me, her eyes still very round. “Did you want to kiss me?” she asks.

No, sweetie, you held a gun to my head. I nod.

She works her mouth. “Is it because I was crying?”

Well, yes – because there is nothing more attractive than snot, saline and red, puffy eyes. “No,” I say, shaking my head.

“You weren’t taking pity on me?”

I smile at her. “There is nothing pitiful about you, Maria.”

She’s silent for a moment, then she breaks into a smile and says, “Cool.”

The next day, I see her at school, standing before her locker. I’m a little uneasy about talking to her – things always seem different in retrospect. Me, I sat up half the night thinking about that kiss, trying to make Mr. Winky go to sleep so I could get some sleep. But it may have been a different story for her. Maybe she went home and sat up half the night wishing she hadn’t kissed me.

So I approach her cautiously, peer at her playfully from behind her locker door. She spies me and breaks into a grin. Whew.

“Hey, Max,” she says and I think I see a slight blush cross her cheeks. Either that or her skin is glowing. Yes, I am egotistical enough to think that one kiss from me would make Maria glow.

“Hi,” I smile back. “Heading for art class?” I know her schedule by heart.

“Yep. Heading for that dreaded math class?”

I laugh – she knows mine as well. I clear my throat. “Look, we only have a couple of minutes. But about last night…”

Her eyebrows arch upwards. “Yeah?”

It’s hard to read her expression. I can’t tell if she is afraid of what I might say or excited about what I might say. Me, I’m terrified of what I am about to say.

“Do you think – I mean, sometime could we, um…”

She giggles. “Full sentences, Max.”

I laugh in embarrassment and look at my shoes. “Prom is coming up and – “

She laughs a little harder. “Oh. My. God. Are you asking me out?!”

Um, yeah…

She must be able to read my expression because hers suddenly falls very serious. “You are,” she says. “Aren’t you?”

I nod. I’m starting to think this isn’t going as I had planned.

“On a date?”

I nod again.

Obviously she’s not convinced. “On a real date?”

I nod yet again – I’ve suddenly become mute. Come on, Deluca, out with the rejection. Please let this fish off the hook.

But she smiles. “Okay.” And she laughs a little giggle. “This doesn’t change anything, does it?” she asks curiously. “I mean, you’re not about to weird out on me now, are you?”

I shake my head, try to hide my grin. I’ve got this rush of adrenaline running through my body, this buzzing excitement. “Nope,” I respond. “Same old Max, same old Maria. Just with a little more of last night thrown in?” I raise my eyebrows questioningly and she laughs.

“Yeah,” she says. “Definitely a little more of last night.”

*******

Part Four 1/2

Prom comes quickly and before I know it I am standing outside of Maria’s house waiting to pick her up. Her mom is a riot – she ogles me as I stand like a nervous dork on her doorstep.

“What a handsome young man,” she says, eyeing me up and down. “What was your name again?”

I laugh uncomfortably and am gratefully relieved by Maria’s voice behind her.

“Mom, stop it,” she complains and pushes her mother out of the way. “You know it’s Max.”

My breath is gone. It’s all over – I can’t breathe. Maria is absolutely stunning. Her hair is pulled up into some curly thing on top of her head and she’s wearing a green dress. But she just looks…perfect. And she smells so good I have to close my eyes against the agony of it.

She’s laughing at me.

I have flowers in my hand. Oh, yeah, I’m supposed to pin them on her…or something. I am a nervous dork.

We manage to make it through the pinning-of-the-corsage ritual and her mom snaps some pictures. Then it’s off to the dance.

We have a great time. We laugh, we dance. I can’t dance as well as she does, but she has amazing patience. A slow song comes on and I get to hold her against me. In the weeks since our first kiss, we’ve kissed many times. In fact, there have been some rather heated moments in the back of my jeep, in the back of her mom’s Jetta. And as I stand here, holding her, swaying with the music, I think of all of those steamy nights, kissing her, wondering where I can touch her without upsetting her. I swallow hard and she looks up at me.

From the look in her eyes, she’s been thinking all of the same things I’ve been thinking. She looks very serious as she reaches up to run her hands through my hair. From this position, looking down, I can see down her dress. She knows I’m looking and she makes no move to hide the view from me. She stands on her tiptoes and kisses the end of my nose. She never really pulls back as her lips brush across mine. I give a little gasp and I can feel her lips spread into a smile. We kiss for the remainder of the song. I don’t care who sees us. I don’t care if one of the chaperones is about to walk over and tap us on the shoulder and tell us to get a room. I can’t think about any of that. All I can think about is her body swaying with mine, her hips locked against mine, her lips moving softly, tenderly beneath mine.

For weeks, I’ve been literally lovesick. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t concentrate on anything. But this night, standing here with her, is exactly what I need. I know how I want this night to end. As soon as I have the thought, she pulls away and looks into my eyes.

“My mom will be out all night,” is all she says.

And then we are in her bedroom. I’m paralyzed. I just watch her move around the room, slipping off her shoes, taking out her earrings. Miraculously, with one pull of a pin, her hair tumbles around her shoulders. She turns on her CD player, turns the volume down so that the sound is barely there.

I’m still hovering in the doorway. She smiles at me, comes before me and turns around. Brushing her hair aside, she says, “Unzip me?”

My fingers tremble as I reach for the zipper. The fabric is delicate and I wonder if she would kick my ass if I accidentally ripped it. I really don’t need that added pressure right now, thanks. The zipper makes it thankfully down her back, past her waist, over the curve of her hips. She smiles and moves away from me, turns around to face me.

Her gaze never wavers as she shrugs first one shoulder, then the other. The dress falls to the floor in the slightest rustling of fabric and she is standing before me in a strapless bra and a pair of lacey panties. I think I just groaned. Was that me that just groaned?

She smiles again, looks momentarily uncertain. “I’ve never…I’ve never done this before,” she confesses.

I shake my head. “Me neither.”

That seems to reassure her a little. “Do you…do you want to?”

Hmm, let me think. I could go home and watch TV with Isabel and the ‘rents instead.

“Yes,” I tell her.

Then she smiles even wider. “Are you going to take some clothes off?”

I’m still fully clothed – suit jacket and all. I have to laugh with her. I kick my shoes off and lay my jacket in a chair. I try not to look too eager. Which I am – eager. But I don’t want her to think that I’m that anxious.

She helps me with my tie, tosses it onto the chair with my coat. Her fingers are trembling, too, as she unbuttons my shirt and lets it drop to the floor. She looks at my chest like she’s never seen it before – she has. But now she is looking at it in a different light. I understand – this is the body she is about to make love to.

I reach out and touch the soft skin of her shoulder, then I let my hand drift down to her breast. She draws in a breath and closes her eyes momentarily. I love her breasts – they seem to fit perfectly in my palm. She’s not big, but that doesn’t matter to me. Her breasts are soft, warm, inviting beneath my hand. With my other hand, I reach behind her and fumble with her bra strap. She is about to reach back to help me, but I used my powers instead and the pesty undergarment falls to the floor. Her eyes grow wide and she giggles.

I feel somewhat detached from the world. I know that life is going on around me, but all I can concentrate on is Maria, the way she feels, the way she smells, the way she sounds. As we lay together on her bed, I try to absorb every little nuance of our intimacy. Never have I lain entirely nude with someone else’s nude body pressed against mine. It is a foreign and awesome sensation. We’re clumsy at first, fumbling, trying to match each other’s moves. But once we stop thinking about it, stop trying to make every little thing perfect, we fall into a natural rhythm and nothing seems more destined than this.

Afterwards, we lay in complete silence. She is curled up beside me, her head on my chest. I smile – her hair tickles. She hasn’t moved in awhile, so I wonder if she is asleep.

“Maria,” I say softly. “What are you doing?”

“Listening to your heart,” she replies.

I smile. “What is it telling you?”

She lifts her head to regard me. Her expression is full of emotion. “It’s telling me to ask you to follow it.” I see a little tear in her eye. “Because mine has asked me to do the same, and I told it yes.”

And suddenly I’m feeling tears in my own eyes. I sniffle and nod. “I will,” I tell her. “You can tell it I will.”

She finally smiles and lays her ear against my chest again.

Life is wonderful. Maria and I grow closer each day. I have never loved anyone as much as I love her. I rarely think of Liz; she never mentions Michael. I think we are healing, together.

Summer comes and goes. Soon it is senior year and by Christmas we are talking colleges. We have to go together. There’s no questioning that. We fan through many brochures. Neither of us knows what we want to be, so our criteria is simple – where can we go to live together and what college has the best night life. We lead a simple existence really – whatever we can do together makes us happy.

And then one day about a month before graduation she comes to my window and tells me she’s pregnant.

******

Part Five

Her depression doesn’t last as long as I anticipated it would. I had geared myself up for a few weeks of moping and refusing to get out of bed and avoiding me. I even set up camp on the couch – I know when that king size bed is too small.

But I come home from work only a few days after the Ed incident and find her on the phone. She’s talking rapidly, gesticulating in that vague Italian manner she possesses. I set my briefcase down silently and loiter in the entranceway, picking up bits and pieces of her conversation. She’s talking to her mom. She got a part – a small part, but a part nonetheless. And not a commercial shoot this time. No more laundry detergent and toothpaste ads for my baby, no siree. A real part in a miniseries or something.

I know she won’t share the joy with me, so I retreat to our bedroom. I know she’ll call her girlfriends, the two or three that she’s made while we’ve been here, and they will go out to celebrate. She doesn’t want to celebrate with me. And that’s okay, because at this point I am just baggage in her life, a painful reminder.

I change my clothes, light a cigarette and go out to the balcony. I hear the phone hang up, then some shuffling around, then a vague, “I’ll be back later.” Have a good time, dear. May you find someone more worthy than me.

And as the nicotine swirls in my lungs, I think about that. Why hasn’t she moved on? Why haven’t I moved on? I’m still young, I’m still fit – I go to the gym three times a week and run on weekends, although that is happening less and less as the tar builds up in my lungs and I can’t tolerate it as much.

That secretary in legal thinks I’m hot – I mean, she lets me ogle her boobs just about every morning. Sure, she’s married, but that doesn’t stop some people from having sex. I could have that woman, I’m sure of it. But I haven’t had her and I have no intention of having her.

Maybe I’m gay.

I giggle – the effects of the smokes. Think of the staggering statistic that would be – not only is he an alien, folks, but he likes boy aliens. I laugh a little harder. Watch out, Michael Guerin – I’m after you.

I sigh. I’m not gay. I’m definitely straight. But for some reason I sit here, stuck in this loveless, passionless marriage like a neutered tabby cat. I think the thing that troubles me is that I don’t want to find someone else. I don’t want her, I don’t want anyone. And to me that is a problem. What did that psychiatrist tell me when I was a teenager? “Don’t be afraid to feel things, Max. The problem is when you can’t feel something.”

And I can’t feel attraction. Is that a problem? Here comes the imaginary conversation.

Me: “Dr….whatever your name was, do you think it’s a problem that I’m not attracted to anyone anymore?”

Dr. Whatever-Your-Name-Was: “I don’t know, Max. Do you think it’s a problem?”

You know, I don’t think that little girl in The Sound of Music ’s name was Greta. I think her name was Gretel. Like Hansel and Gretel.

I smoke too much.

Around me, the sky has turned dark and the city lights are once again painting a florescent picture before me. I don’t know what time Maria left – some time shortly after I got home from work. It’s dark now. She’s been gone awhile and I know she won’t be home any time soon. She’s celebrating. With her superficial friends. I’m alone. With an empty stomach and a horrible buzz.

So life goes on. I go to work at Fucking and Fucked-Up, I come home. I catch pieces of Maria’s phone conversations. This is the only way I know how her days go, what it’s like on the set. It’s not that she’s hiding anything from me, it’s not a secret. I think she doesn’t think I’m interested. But I am…kinda.

A little generous part of me likes seeing her so happy. A little jealous part of me is upset that I’m not the one who could make her happy. It becomes more and more obvious every day that she doesn’t need me. And that I don’t need her.

At work, the legal secretary continues to drop stacks of paper to the floor in front of my cube. I continue helping her pick them up and trying to not stare at her breasts. Ed continues to laugh at both of us. I balance the books, make entries, count beans, all the time thinking that I never intended on a pencil-pusher job. But I stay here because it is good money and I am good at it. I’m as neutered on the job as I am at home.

And then one afternoon I come home and find Maria on the couch. She’s staring straight into space, her expression vacant. I stop in the doorway and feel my world start to spin. Something is really really wrong. My parents? One of them sick or injured? Is it Maria, is she hurt in some way? I suddenly can’t swallow past my mounting fear.

“Maria?” I say cautiously.

She turns slowly to look at me. Her eyes are dead.

“What happened?” I ask.

She expels a little snort, which only heightens my anxiety.

“What?” I ask her.

Drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she delivers the news. “Isabel is pregnant.”

******

Part Six

We get married. Not because it is “the right thing to do.” Because we love each other and this child is not a problem for either of us. It’s happening a bit too soon – I think we were planning on waiting until we were out of college to have kids, but it’s really okay. We’ll adjust.

I want Michael as my best man; Maria wants Liz as her maid of honor. But neither of us would hurt the other like that, so we compromise – we don’t have a wedding. We get married at the court house and Isabel and Alex stand up for us.

We move to Las Cruces to go to the University of New Mexico. Because we are married, we’re exempt from that whole living in the dorm your first two years crap. We get a tiny apartment just off campus. It’s small and cramped and co-habiting is new for us, but again we adjust. Our bedroom is too small to hold anything other than a full-size bed, so sleeping is an adventure. We both sprawl when we sleep, which means we are constantly climbing over one another. And neither of us minds.

Classes start and I spend my time studying and watching Maria’s body go through its metamorphosis. It’s a fascinating process and she doesn’t try to hide her impending motherhood from the world. It takes forever for her to show, but once she does, it’s like her stomach expands a little every day. Her breasts are becoming heavy, full, preparing to feed our child.

At night, I lay my head against her belly and feel the tiny kicks and punches coming from within. I think it’s a girl. We decided to not find out, but instinct is telling me it’s a little girl. I imagine what she will look like – hopefully like her mother. I envision putting bows in her blond hair, taking her to the park, buying frilly little dresses for her and I smile. Maria puts a hand in my hair and laughs. We’re bound together tighter than we ever have been.

I am awakened from my slumber by Maria shifting on the bed. She’s uncomfortable these days, about six months pregnant. She’s restless, her back hurts. But it feels like she is getting up, which isn’t unusual since she pees every ten minutes lately.

“You okay?” I ask against my pillow, without looking at her.

There is a pause and I glance over my shoulder. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, her shoulders sort of hunched together.

“Yeah,” she finally answers, her voice sounding exhausted. “I just need to pee.”

I figured as much. She leaves the bed and I start to drift back to sleep.

My eyes snap open a little while later as I realize that she hasn’t come back to bed. How long has she been gone? I sit up and rub my eyes. I can see the bathroom light illuminating from beneath the door.

“Maria?” I call.

There’s no answer.

And now I’m scared. I shove the covers from my body and run to the bathroom door. I push it open – and stop short.

She’s lying on the floor in a pool of blood. The thick red fluid has soaked through her nightgown and is spreading into a wide ellipse around her body. I’m shaking everywhere as I drop to my knees and take her face between my hands. She’s barely conscious.

“Maria,” I say. “Look at me, Maria.”

Her hazel eyes barely crack open and a tear slips down her cheek. Her skin is so pale, so lifeless, so cold.

“The…baby…” she gasps.

“I know – hang on,” I tell her. I place my palm on her belly and concentrate. Nothing. I let out a desperate gasp of air and try again. Nothing.

“Max,” she cries, her voice weak.

“Hang on,” I reassure her. Get a grip on yourself, Max – calm down. “You’ll be okay.” I draw in another breath, concentrate on the baby. Again nothing. Now full-fledged panic is assaulting my body. The blood is soaking through the knees of my pajama bottoms at an alarming rate.

Maybe I’m doing this wrong. Maybe I need to heal the mother before I can heal the child. So I place my hand on Maria’s chest and concentrate on connecting with her.

“Look at me, Maria,” I order her. She’s fading fast and I have to speak sternly to her to get her attention. “Look at me!”

Her eyes fix on mine and for the briefest moment I am in. I feel a little rush of joy at getting in, then a horrible stab of pain, then nothing again.

I can’t heal her.

Oh my God. I don’t know what to do. In my arms, she goes limp, unconscious. She’s dying. She’s really dying right here in front of me and there is nothing I can do about it.

My instincts kick in and I run into the bedroom, pull on a shirt and stuff my feet into my shoes. Then I grab a blanket and race back to the bathroom. Wrapping her up tightly, I hoist her into my arms and run for the jeep. I think I left the door to our apartment wide open – I’m not sure and I really don’t care.

I race as fast as I can for the hospital. I pull the jeep to a screeching halt outside of the emergency room entrance and barely remember to yank up the emergency brake before charging to the passenger side of the vehicle. I pull Maria out and run for the doors.

The stark light of the emergency room stings my eyes and I have to squint against the pain. As I am stumbling through the doors with my bleeding wife in my arms, several nurses and interns look up at my intrusion. Within seconds I am surrounded; someone is ripping her from my arms. I don’t want to let her go, but someone else puts a hand on my shoulder and pulls me in the opposite direction.

I watch in horror as they put her on a gurney and start undressing her. So much blood, everywhere.

“Who is she?” a nurse asks.

I look at her blankly. “My wife.”

“What’s going on with her?”

I look at her dumbfounded. What is going on with her? She’s dying, you moron. “She’s pregnant,” I manage to choke out.

“What happened?” is the next question.

I know they are only trying to do their jobs, but God, woman, leave me alone. I run a hand through my hair.

“Sir,” the nurse says sternly. “We need your help.”

Of course. Sorry. “She said she had to pee,” I explain. I’m sure they care about that. “I found her on the bathroom floor.”

She nods and moves away, to the pack of scrub-suited wolves that are attacking my wife. I have never felt so lost in my entire life. They start to wheel her away and I start to follow, but a hand on my arm stops me. I look down into the cute face of a very young nurse.

“Why don’t you come with me?” she says sweetly.

I don’t want to go with her. I want to go with Maria. But the nurse smiles gently at me and I let her lead me away. I watch the doors through which my wife disappeared until not even craning my neck will keep them in view.

And then the waiting starts.

I sit in the waiting room staring blankly at a television I think is placed there to distract. Like anything could distract me from this. It’s been two hours. I’ve been sitting here, alone, in the middle of the night for the past two hours and no one has come out to tell me how she is. I try to convince myself that that is a good thing – it means she’s still alive. If she’d died, they wouldn’t waste time telling me that, would they? But maybe it’s also a bad thing…

Why couldn’t I help her? Why couldn’t I work the voodoo like I have so many times before and just make everything all better for her? And what about the baby? Will she live? I feel a lump in my throat and I force it away. I can’t cry. Not now.

Maybe I should call Mom. Mom would sit here with me…but Mom is in Roswell and I don’t want to wake her in the middle of the night and frighten her. Maria’s mom should know what is going on. But I have nothing definite to tell her and Amy Deluca is not a calm person. I will have to wait until morning to call her.

Another hour passes and finally a woman doctor approaches me. She has that look on her face. I’ve seen that look before and my heart jerks in my chest. This isn’t good. The doctor sits down beside me and I suddenly feel cornered.

“Mr. Evans,” she begins.

“Max,” I correct her. I am younger than this woman and the fact that she wants to address me with a title is ridiculous.

“Okay, Max. I’m Dr. Shea. I performed your wife’s surgery.”

Surgery? Oh God.

She tries to give an optimistic smile.

“Is she okay?” I manage to stutter out.

The doctor nods. “I think she will recover.”

What does that mean?

She continues. “She lost a lot of blood, she’s very weak. But the surgery went well and we’re keeping a close eye on her.”

I have to know. I don’t want to ask, but I have to know. “The b…the baby?” I know my voice just cracked.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ev – Max. There was nothing we could do.”

I look to the floor and I can feel the tears seeping out from beneath my lashes. All of those fantasies of trips to the park, birthday cakes, pig tails and hair ribbons – they’re all dead now.

“Maria is going to need your support,” Dr. Shea is saying. “She’s been through a lot.” She looks a little uncomfortable. “There’s something else, Max.”

I look back at her through blurry eyes.

“The damage was severe, Max. I hate to have to tell you this, but Maria will never be able to bare another child.”

And now I am numb. I can’t cry. I can’t even think. I believe this woman just told me that my nineteen year old wife is barren. She was pregnant a few hours ago, and now she will be childless.

“I’m sorry,” she says sympathetically and for a moment I muse about how difficult it must be to deliver news like this.

“Can I see her?” I choke out.

She nods. “She’s sedated right now, but it would probably be a good thing if you were there when she wakes up.” She eyes my clothes. “I’ll get you something to wear.”

For the first time, I realize that I am a blood-covered mess. My pajamas are soaked. There is blood smeared across my shirt, dried on my arms. No, it wouldn’t be a good idea to let her see me like this.

The doctor starts to move away, but I stop her.

“What was it?” I ask.

She gives me a look that reads “Are you sure you want to know?” but relents anyway. “A girl.”

******

Part Seven

After a few days, I take her home. It hurts me beyond belief to see her cringe as she climbs the steps to our apartment. I offer to help her, but she brushes me off without a word. So I follow her, slowly, step by step. At least she lets me get the door for her.

She avoids the bathroom. I scrubbed that floor for two hours straight so that she wouldn’t have the tiniest of reminders of what had happened in there. I could have waved my hand and cleaned that tile in a matter of seconds, but I have made a vow to myself that I am done with my powers. They have failed me, I can’t trust myself to use them any more.

I think she waits to pee until it is an emergency – not a good idea considering her insides are all messed up and the extra pressure can’t be good for her. She staggers for the bathroom and inside I can hear her crying. I’m not sure if she is crying because it hurts to pee or because she’s remembering what happened. I hover by the closed door until she tells me to go away.

Then she retires to the bed. She stays there for two weeks, doing nothing but staring at the wall. I try to talk to her. She acts like she doesn’t hear. I have to force her to eat, to keep her doctor’s appointments. Her eyes are dull and I know a little piece of her is dead.

I know I am to blame.

I sleep on the couch the first few nights just because I am afraid I will jostle her in my sleep and hurt her. I explain this to her and she doesn’t act like she cares. When I move back into the bed, I find that I can indeed sleep in a confined space as I have exiled myself to the very edge of the mattress. I want to hold her, but she doesn’t act interested.

I never see her cry. Me, I bawl like a two year old. But not around her. It usually hits me at the oddest moments – in the shower, walking to the carry-out to get milk. Isabel stops by and finds me blubbering on the curb. She’s such a sweet sister – she never makes any comments, just sits beside me and puts an arm around my shoulders. I love Isabel so much.

Alex drops in a few days later and Maria greets him with a big grin, a kiss and a hug. She even manages to laugh a little and I am insanely jealous. What is Alex doing that I’m not? Oh, it’s not what I am doing, it’s what I couldn’t do. Got it.

The first time we try to make love again, after the doctor gives her okay, is a disaster. Maria cries the whole time, silently. She just lays there, her head turned to the side, her arms above her head, her hands clutching the slats of the headboard until her knuckles turn white. I try to talk to her, to sooth her, to tell her we can wait, but she doesn’t respond. And after awhile I can’t respond – literally. I feel like I’m violating her, so I just stop and tell her it’s okay. She won’t even let me hold her.

And eventually I stop trying. I think when I first brought her home, I was hopelessly optimistic that things would return to normal. Now I know they won’t. We pass in the hallway and barely speak. She showers with the bathroom door closed. When I travel back to Roswell for Isabel’s twenty-first birthday party, she stays behind. I’m not sure if it’s because she doesn’t want to answer questions about the baby or if it’s because she doesn’t want to spend time with me.

I supposed she eventually catches on that I have abandoned my powers. The first morning I come out of the bathroom with bloody dots of toilet tissue on my face is probably the first indication. But she never says a word. She kind of eyes me curiously, but she never asks.

And then one day I come home from classes and find her sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for me. She looks expectant, nervous about something. I drop my backpack by the door and slowly sink into a chair opposite her.

“Maria?” I ask her softly.

She works her mouth, draws in a breath and lets out what’s on her mind. “I want to move to California.”

Huh? I blink a couple of times. Where has this come from? “California?” I choke out.

She nods, her gaze flitting away from mine. “I’ve been taking this drama class” – yes, I know – “and I think maybe I could make a go of it.”

I watch her silently. She took that drama class as an elective because she had no idea what she wanted to major in, not because she had a life-long dream of being an actress. And now she wants to pack up the U-Haul and head for Tinsel town?

She lets out a sigh and looks at the floor. “I knew you’d hate the idea.”

I shake my head vigorously. I may hate the idea, but I don’t want to upset her. “I don’t hate it,” I lie. “Just tell me more of what you have planned.”

There is a spark in her eyes that I haven’t seen in a long time. She sits up straight at the table. “I thought we could wait until Christmas when you’re between semesters.”

When I’m between semesters? Shouldn’t she be between them as well at that point? Or is her college career over now? And why Christmas? I thought she would want to be with her family this year. I want to be with mine.

“Go on,” I say.

“And you can register at UCLA or something. You’re smart, Max – I know you’ll get in.”

Yes, I probably could.

“What would you do?” I ask her cautiously.

“Get an agent.” She almost giggles when she says it. “Take some more acting classes, go to auditions.” For the first time in months, she reaches across the table and touches my hand. “Please, Max. I really want this.”

I can’t deny her. So we pack up our little apartment, she drops out of school and I transfer. As we drive to Los Angeles, I can practically feel her slip farther away from me as each mile passes. Her mind is propelling her in an entirely different direction than mine is heading. She wants cosmetic surgery – and makes it very clear that I have no say in the matter.

By the time we reach sunny California, I realize I am traveling with a stranger.

I go to UCLA, finally picking accounting as a major. I’m good with numbers, I can’t cheat with my powers. I will probably make a good buck some day. One day in the student lounge someone offers me a cigarette and since I’ve never tried smoking, I accept and a new love affair is started.

Buzzed, I can deal with anything. Or rather, I don’t have to deal with anything. My miserable life disappears and the whole world is beautiful. I have to learn to hide my state of intoxication – normal people don’t get stoned off Winstons. Which is the true joy of it – I can put myself out of misery whenever I want and no one is the wiser. And I do it many times – holidays are the most appropriate times. No family around, a wife that is withdrawn. So I withdraw – into my head.

I think Maria wonders about the smoking, but again she never asks and I don’t offer her any explanation.

In spite of the perpetual emotional evasion, I graduate with honors and Finegold and Fisher recruits me – for a good buck. See, I knew it would happen. Maria continues on her quest to be a movie star and I continue to get stoned.

Such is life.

Until my sister gets pregnant.

Part Eight

I’m going to be an uncle. I commit the ultimate faux pas by smiling.

“You think that’s funny?” Maria’s voice is like ice. Her eyes are practically ablaze now.

I shake my head. “No, not funny.” I think I need to be very careful here. “I’m just happy for them. It’s a good thing.”

She snorts and looks away from me. I manage to shrug off my coat and drop my briefcase to the floor. I walk over to her, stand before her.

“Don’t you think it’s good for Iz and Alex?” I ask her.

She shrugs noncommittally.

Now I snort. I understand being childless because even though she thinks this thing only happened to her, it happened to me as well. She will never be a mother, but I will also never be a father because of this. And the fact that she can sit here and begrudge Isabel and Alex happiness irks me beyond words. I’m outta here.

I turn to retreat to the bedroom and just as I am about to enter the hallway, something smashes into the wall inches from my head. I hear the sound of shattering glass as I realize she has thrown an ashtray at me. I whirl on her, but she is quicker than I am.

“Don’t walk away from me!” she shouts. She is now standing up in front of the couch and is waving an accusing finger at me.

“I will,” I tell her. “Because I can’t stand to spend another moment with you, Maria.” Oh…did I just say that aloud? Run for the ocean, dear citizens of Pompeii – I feel a rumbling in the earth that can only be a volcano about to spew its contents into the atmosphere.

Her eyes narrow. “Really? Well, there’s a revelation, Max.”

I toss my hands into the air. “What is that supposed to mean?”

She waves her hands in that agitated manner of hers. “You haven’t wanted to be with me for years, Max.”

That’s not true…is that true? Let’s pretend for the sake of arguing that it is. “Who would want to be with you?” I retort hurtfully. “Who would want to be with someone who can’t be happy for someone else’s good news?”

She’s speechless for a moment and I almost think I see tears in her eyes. When she speaks, her voice is low, cold. “You, Max Evans, are the most insensitive person I have ever met.”

Me?

“How can you stand there and not understand how bad this hurts me?” she asks and I believe she is about to cry.

“It has nothing to do with you,” I sternly remind her. “It has to do with Alex and Isabel and a new baby for them. You are in no way impacted.”

She snorts. “This is what I mean,” she says, bitter defeat in her tone. “You can’t understand that it does impact me, Max. I am never going to be able to do what they’re doing.”

Yes, my love, I know. I was there.

“And it’s your fault.”

Wha…? I can’t think of any come back. None. She has just put harsh, blunt light to the idea that I have been mulling around in my head for the last eight years. In my mind, I see villagers running for the ocean, fleeing the wrath of nature.

“Isn’t that what you think?” she accuses. “Poor martyred Max,” she mocks. “Couldn’t charge in on the white horse and save the damsel in distress this time, could you?”

I’m feeling incredibly angry. I think it has something to do with her childish, mocking tone. “Stop it,” I warn her. I know if she pushes me too hard, I am going to unload on her and it is not going to be pretty. In fact, I can feel my head start to pound with the sudden rush of adrenaline. It’s not going to take much to push me over the edge on this one.

“God, Max,” she cries, holding her head. “You’re so fucking blind to everything going on around you! You just sit around stoned all day” – she knows about that? – “and detach yourself from the rest of the world. You’re a zombie, Max!”

*KABOOM* And the mountain erupts into a blaze of fire and molten rock…

“ I’m a zombie!” I shout. “ I’m a zombie? Jesus Christ, Maria – look at yourself! You walk around painting yourself up and gathering uncaring friends so you don’t have to be yourself, so that you don’t have to deal. Not once have I seen you cry over the loss of that baby or the fact that you are never going to have another one. I’m the cold, insensitive one? At least I grieved – I cried and tried to hold you and make it all better but you just pushed me away and turned yourself into this fake person. I don’t know where the Maria I knew went. She checked out years ago. She gave up. She went and let some doctor disfigure her beautiful body because she couldn’t deal with who she was. You’re right – I stay stoned all day long so I can ignore the elephant we have living with us. I stay stoned because I can’t stand to see someone I love turn her back on everything I loved about her and become this hollow shell of a person. Goddammit, Maria, don’t you ever call me cold or a zombie again because when it comes to emotional lock-down, you’ve pretty much nailed the gold medal in that one.”

The silence in our apartment is suddenly very loud. My chest heaves with my fury and I think I’m a bit startled that I let all of that out. Maria is looking at me, her eyes wide, her bottom lip quivering. We seem to stand like that forever, then she bursts into tears and rushes past me, down the hall and into the bathroom. She slams the door so hard I hear a picture in the hall fall to the floor.

Alone, I am overcome by guilt. This is the moment I never wanted to come. I think I always believed that we would just continue down our dysfunctional path and never confront one another. I mean, this has been festering for many years. It should have exploded within the first few months. In my mind, I see thousands of Pompeians covered in volcanic ash.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. I can hear her sobs coming from the bathroom. Turning on my heel, I walk to the door and speak softly against the wood.

“Maria. Let me in.”

“Go away!” she snaps.

I shake my head. Not this time. I try the handle – she didn’t lock it. I push open the door and am greeted with an all-too-familiar sight – Maria in a puddle of blood. She’s sitting on the toilet lid, elbows on knees, head in hands, a pool of blood beneath her foot. I think she must have stepped on pieces of the broken ashtray when she ran passed me.

I kneel before her and reach for her ankle. She tries to push me away, but her emotional breakdown has exhausted her.

“Shh,” I say and lift her foot. She’s got a pretty big gash there. I wet a washcloth in the sink and hold it to the wound. I silently wonder if it’s bad enough to require stitches.

She sniffles, wipes her nose. When she speaks, her voice is small and her words shock me to the core. “Why could you bring Liz Parker back from the near death, but you couldn’t heal me enough to give you a child?”

There it is, folks. It bold, blinking neon. The thing that has really been lying between us for all of these years.

I sit back on my heels and meet her gaze. She doesn’t look away. She looks sad, miserable.

I shake my head. “I don’t know.” And that’s the truth. I really don’t know. It doesn’t have anything to do with the level of emotion between us. I did love Liz, but I love Maria more. Maybe I could heal Liz because her injury was an accident. Maybe I couldn’t heal Maria because this is the way things were meant to be. I just don’t know.

She sniffles and gives a weak smile. “It’s all I wanted,” she confesses as new tears fill her eyes.

“What?” I ask her gently.

She looks at the floor. “To have a family with you.” Her tears flow onto her cheeks. “Because I love you so much, Max. I can never give you a family, a life and I’ll understand if you don’t want to be with me, if you want to go find someone else.”

I cock my head and regard her with sad eyes. I feel like I should say something, but then again maybe this time I shouldn’t say anything.

Her eyes are unwavering as she looks at me, then her face contorts into a mask of pain and she begins to sob. “I wanted that little girl so bad, Max. For you. For me. For both of us. And now I can’t ever have –“ She chokes and breaks into a full sob.

I don’t tell her to stop, I don’t tell her everything is going to be okay – it’s been eight years in the works and I am not about to diminish her right to grieve. Instead, I simply reach forward and put my arms around her. At our contact, she gasps, then begins to cry harder. I hold her as tight at I can, feel her frail body trembling against mine. She is flat-out wailing now and I feel my eyes start to sting. I can’t fix her, I can’t heal her, but I can hold her while she grieves.

“Oh, God, Max,” she sobs. “I am so sorry. So sorry. Forgive me.”

But there is nothing to forgive her for. So I just pull her closer to me and rock her. After a bit, I stand up and hoist her into my arms and here I am – carrying my bloody wife again. I take her to the bedroom and lay her on the bed. Then I lay down with her and cradle her, let her cry. She seems to cry for an eternity until finally, exhausted, she drifts to sleep.

I lay there for a long time, just watching her face as she sleeps. Her tears have left dried salty tracks down her cheeks, across her face. I, too, feel exhausted, like someone has let all of the air out of me. This should have happened a long time ago. And I’m as much to blame as she is. I’ve spent so much time stoned, avoiding a day like today. And I would have kept on avoiding it had it not been for my sister’s good news.

Eventually, I carefully disentangle myself from her and creep down the bed. Cautiously, so as to not disturb her slumber, I unwrap the washcloth from her foot. Ugh – bloody mess. She needs stitches. I consider waking her so we can go to the hospital, but then I look into her peaceful face and I can’t disturb her. I know what I need to do.

I can’t believe I’m nervous about this. But it has been many years. I’m not sure I remember how. I guess there’s only one way to find out. I draw in a breath and put my hand on her foot. At first nothing happens, then I feel a charge through my whole body and I have to struggle to keep myself from gasping. My hand is suddenly warm and a faint glow illuminates from beneath. In only a matter of seconds, I feel my power wane and I fear that I have failed again.

But when I lift my hand, her skin is smooth and unmarred. It worked. I give a little laugh and smile. It really worked.

I sit in the chair by the window and watch her sleep. The light flowing through the window slowly fades until I can only see her illuminated by the streetlight outside. So I sit in the dark, watching her shoulders rise and fall with her slumber. It has a hypnotic effect.

And it’s suddenly daylight and my neck hurts. And my back. And my arm. I must’ve fallen asleep in this damned chair. I untwist my body and stretch. Maria is still asleep on the bed, though she has managed to change positions some time during the night.

I get ready for work silently. I don’t want to disturb her. She had a major break-through yesterday and it apparently sapped her of her energy. It’s okay, Maria, you sleep. I know you’ll be here when I get home and then we can talk.

Because I know things between us have changed again.

Part Nine

I come home from work and find the apartment eerily silent. My first thought is that Maria has slept all day, which is a concern. But she is not in the bedroom. I walk from room to room, peering through doorways to see if she is inside. I finally find her on the balcony, sitting in my chair. Her feet are propped up on the chair across from her. She’s smoking the remains of a cigarette. I eye the smoke curiously, but don’t say anything.

She looks up at me and reaches over to snuff out the butt of the cigarette. It’s not a defensive move – she was down to the filter. Then she looks back at me and wiggles her toes.

“You’ve been busy,” she says.

I laugh nervously and sit down when she removes her feet from the chair. She inspects the bottom of her foot.

“You do good work,” she notes.

I shrug self-consciously. Then an uneasy silence falls over us. “Are you okay?” I finally ask.

She meets my gaze, nods. “I think so.” She scratches her face. “We should probably talk.”

I fold my hands between my knees, nod.

“Do you still love me, Max?”

Her gaze is unwavering and I can’t tell if she is afraid of the answer I give or not. I nod and her reaction isn’t obvious.

“You said you can’t stand to be with me,” she reminds.

Ugh – that ugly fight from yesterday. “I said that because I was angry,” I tell her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“You never try to touch me, Max. You’ve pushed me away.”

I blink. Is that true? Have I been fooling myself into believing Maria was the one who was distancing herself? Have I been living under a self-deception? I stare at the floor and think about that. I know in the beginning I tried to break through her shell…but at what point did I give up? When did I decide it was hopeless?

“Maria, I…” my voice trails off as I realize I have no explanation for my actions.

“It’s okay,” she says, looking across the skyline, squinting against the sinking sun. “I’m sure I played a part in that.” She looks down to her hands, picks at one of her fingernails. “Are we over?”

I feel a little spark of panic in my stomach. “I don’t want us to be,” I tell her honestly.

She looks at me and gives a half smile. “Me neither. I really do love you, Max.”

“I know.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Do you really?” She sighs. “This has been very hard for me. There are so many things that I wanted for us – a family, a home, happiness. And when…and when that baby died, it all just went away. God, I felt so lost, Max, and I know you tried to help me, but you were lost yourself. You can’t seek guidance from someone who doesn’t know where they are.”

She speaks the truth.

I need to broach this next subject cautiously, but for some reason I feel that right now she is more willing to listen than she will ever be. “You know,” I start hesitantly. “This woman in my office adopted a baby from China.”

Her head snaps in my direction and for a moment I think she is going to reprimand me for the suggestion. But her shocked expression fades quickly and she is looking at me curiously. She picks up another cigarette and starts to light it, but I take it from her and put it in the ashtray. She doesn’t protest.

“A girl,” I continue. “It only took about a year.” I smile hopefully. “It could be an option some day,” I tell her.

She looks back to the sunset. “Could be,” she responds. There is a tinge of hope in her voice, and I decide to let the subject rest. I’ll just let it brew there for awhile, let her think about it.

“So,” I say, “what do we do now?”

She looks at me again. “I want to go home.”

That night, I climb into bed and lay in my usual position – my back to her. But shortly I feel her behind me, pressing against my back. I look over my shoulder and see that she also has her back to me.

“Please,” she says, her voice sounding uncertain.

So I roll over and tentatively put my arm around her waist. I feel her body relax – was she afraid I would reject her? – and she pushes herself back against me. It has been an eternity since I held her and the sensation brings tears to my eyes. I snuggle in with her, using my free hand to smooth her hair.

I awake in the middle of the night to light kisses on my neck, small hands under my T-shirt. It takes a few moments for me to clear the cobwebs from my mind and determine what is happening. Then my eyes are wide open and I just watch her undress me. She has already stripped and I stare at her in awe. Once I am naked, she leans down and kisses me, fully, on the mouth, like she used to. I groan at the sudden sensation coursing through my body. Then she straddles me and for the first time in a very, very long time, we’re together again.

We sell most of our furniture – we know it will take some time to find a new place to live in Roswell and storing it is just not worth it. The remainder of our stuff fits in a U-Haul – we’re leaving California the same way we came into it.

Before we leave, she has the implants removed and once again she is my beautiful, petite Maria. She returns from the hospital swollen, sore, but I smile at her and take care of the pain, the swelling and the scars. And she smiles about that. I think she likes that I am dabbling with my powers again – believe it or not, to us that is a ‘normal’ activity.

The drive to New Mexico doesn’t seem as long as the trip away from it did. We take the time out to sight-see, even stopping in a hotel or two along the way. It almost feels like we are newly weds, like this is the honeymoon we never got, nine years after the fact.

At home, we stay in the loft above my parents’ garage until I can work something else out. We have enough money saved from my job and Maria’s last gig to buy a small house. First we need to decide what we want to do so we can determine how much of a payment we can afford. I know I don’t want to be in the accounting business even though it has brought me financial success. I can’t stay in a job I hate. I have no idea what Maria has in mind.

One night, I sit at our small kitchen table and crunch numbers – our savings accounts, checking accounts, retirement accounts, stocks and bonds. I marvel at the amount of money we have stashed in a multitude of places – while I was stoned, I must’ve found it amusing to squirrel money away. I snicker to myself – even wasted, I have a fatal sense of responsibility.

I see a shadow cross the table and I look up to see Maria standing before me, looking uncertain. I’m about to ask her what’s up when I notice a folder in her hand.

She swallows and holds the folder out to me. “Do we have enough money?” she asks cautiously.

I silently take the folder from her and open it. It’s a business plan – to open her own aromatherapy shop. There are many pages of documents, all neatly printed from Microsoft something-or-the-other, detailing start up costs, rent, licenses, other expenses. She’s even managed to include bar graphs and pie charts, which I find humorous but don’t smile at. She’s worked really hard at this – it had to take her weeks – and she’s been very diligent.

I look up at her and she is staring expectantly at me. She looks like a nervous teenager who has just asked if she can go to the prom. I have no idea why she thinks I’m the only one who has a say in this because our lives are together now.

“Do you have a site?” I ask her.

She breathes a sigh of relief and slides into the chair across from me. “There’s an open retail space not far from the Crashdown,” she announces and I can tell she’s trying to conceal her excitement.

“Oh,” I reply, leading her.

“And there’s more, Max.” She looks like she’s about to climb out of her skin.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. There’s a living space above the store. The building is for sale.” She smiles wider. “If we have the money, we could just buy the building and it would kill two birds with one stone.”

“Oh.”

She’s staring to talk rapidly now. “And, if you wanted, you could do the books and stuff so we wouldn’t have to hire an accountant. I mean, I know you don’t want to do the accounting stuff any more, but I don’t think this would take more than a few hours of your time a week.” She gives a nervous giggle. “It would keep you from getting rusty.”

“Uh huh.”

She gasps out a sigh. “Max.”

I look at her.

“Is that all you have to say?”

I decide to pay with her, let her sweat a bit. I flip back through the papers, bite my lip like I am thinking hard about something. What I’m thinking about is that I really don’t want to burst out laughing and reveal my hand. Finally, I shake my head and sigh and I can see her deflate in front of me.

“I knew it,” she says dejectedly. “We don’t have enough money.”

I’m still shaking my head. “That’s not it,” I say.

She looks at me. “What is it then?”

“I’m just wondering who’s going to take care of setting up our new home while I’m helping you in your new store.”

She screams – literally screams – and throws herself in my lap. I’m laughing even as I feel my chair tip backward and we spill onto the floor. Then she’s kissing me, hugging me, telling me she loves me. See? All these years and all I needed to do was buy her a store.

Isabel gives birth to a perfect, healthy baby boy. Twelve hours of labor and all seven and a half pounds of Alexander Charles Whitman II enters the world. We visit the next day. Isabel looks tired but absolutely radiant. In her arms, a bundle of joy, three-quarters human, one-quarter alien. I kiss her on the cheek and shake Alex’s hand. It’s a strange gesture, really – “Congratulations on knocking up my sister.” We have odd customs.

“How are you?” I ask Isabel.

She smiles tiredly. “I’m great, Uncle Max. Just perfect.”

Alex snorts a laugh at the Uncle Max part. I can tell that he is walking on a cloud right now – I definitely would be, too.

I reach down and touch Alex II’s little head. He is so warm, so soft, so small. He smells like baby powder. “Hey, there, little fella,” I say to him. He wiggles. Maybe he knows I’m an alien, too.

Isabel laughs. “He’s already attached to you,” she says. “Do you want to hold him?”

I straighten. Um, hold him? But he’s so little and I’m big and what if I drop him?

She laughs again – Isabel always could read my mind. “You won’t hurt him, Max.” And then she’s lifting him towards me and I can’t resist the temptation, so I take him into my arms.

He weighs nothing. But what he does weigh is dead weight – it feels like holding a warm water balloon wrapped in a towel. But this balloon wiggles every now and then and makes little noises. I push back the blanket and look at his tiny little fingers, smaller than seems possible. It’s the most amazing thing I have ever seen. Which piques my curiosity and I dig in the blanket until I find one of his feet. His toes are even smaller than his fingers! His big toe is no bigger than my pinky fingernail.

Isabel is laughing again and I look at her, caught in the act. “It’s okay,” she says. “It’s just the look on your face.”

I smile back at her. “He’s just...tiny,” I say in awe.

She shifts her position and winces a bit. “Thank God he wasn’t any bigger.”

And I have to laugh a bit.

Isabel’s gaze drifts over to my shoulder and I know she is checking to see if Maria is okay. “How about Aunt Maria?” she asks. “Would she like to hold the baby?”

I turn to look at Maria, who has been uncharacteristically silent. Her eyes are fixed on me, on Alex II and I know what she is thinking – she’s thinking that it could have been me, years ago, holding our daughter and it could have been her in the bed proudly displaying her new child to her visitors. So I smile at her as gently as I can. She doesn’t look like she is going to freak, but she looks so fragile right now.

“Here,” I say softly, offering the baby. “Meet your nephew.”

Her eyes meet mine and I think I see fear there. But she swallows and slowly takes the baby from my arms. I watch silently as she bundles him into the crook of her arm and pushes the blanket away from his face. I chance a sideways glance at Alex – he looks worried. Isabel looks hopeful.

And then Maria begins to slowly rock the baby and a small smile curves her lips. She talks softly to him and I see a tear slip from her eye. When she looks up at Isabel, her eyes are flooded.

“He’s beautiful,” she says between her tears.

“Thank you,” Isabel says graciously and I think maybe she wants to cry as well.

Maria turns to Alex as she wipes her eyes with her free hand. “Alex, congratulations,” she manages.

He smiles back at her and in a gesture that is so typically Alex, he puts an arm around her shoulders and kisses the top of her head while she dries her tears.

Isabel looks at Alex and for some reason he nods. She smiles and looks back to Maria. “I’m glad he likes the two of you.”

I eye her curiously.

“Because Alex and I have a favor to ask,” she continues.

Okay, got my interest, Sis. What is it?

Maria sniffles, lets out a little sigh. “What kind of favor?” she asks.

“Well, Alex and I wanted to ask you if you would be Xander’s godparents,” Isabel announces.

We’re both speechless.

“We wanted to make sure that if anything ever happened to us, that he’d be taken care of,” Alex explains.

Isabel smiles again. “And we both know that you’d make good parents.”

We would? I look at Maria, who is looking at me in total shock. I don’t want to be the one to accept – I want her to make the effort to say that it is okay, that we would take on that responsibility. The likelihood that anything would happen to both Iz and Alex is slim, but I can’t get passed the fact that at one point we were all orphans – me, Michael and Isabel. Iz and I lucked out. Michael didn’t. I don’t want to see something like that happen to my nephew.

To my surprise, Maria nods slowly, looks down at the baby in her arms. “Of course,” she says as a new wave of tears floods her eyes. “We’d love to take care of him.”

My own eyes sting and I reach for her as Alex takes the baby from her arms. Quietly, so no one else can hear, I thank her.

That night, in bed, she slips under my arm and lays her head against my chest, like she always used to. We’re fitting together better these days, living like real husband and wife. We lay silently for awhile, then she gives a little sigh and speaks.

“Today at the hospital...”

I nod in the darkness. “Yeah?”

“Holding that little baby…”

I have no idea what’s coming next. I glance down at the top of her head.

“I thought about what you said,” she continues.

“What did I say?”

“About China. About it being a possibility some day.”

Wow. She has been thinking about it. I mentioned that many months ago and she has never brought it up again. I swallow. “Yeah?” I’ve become Mono-Syllable Man.

She pauses, shifts her weight a bit. “I think maybe I’d like to try that.”

Because she can’t see my face, I allow myself to smile victoriously. I manage to keep the excitement out of my voice. “You would?”

“Yeah.” She sighs again. “But there’s so much to think about, Max. So much uncertainty.” She sounds confused.

So I flip her onto her back and lay my head against her chest.

She laughs. “What are you doing?” Her tone is one of amused disbelief.

“Listening to your heart,” I reply, echoing her words from the first night we made love. I raise my head enough so that I can see her face. She looks very serious.

“What is it telling you?” she asks quietly, echoing my words.

“It’s telling me to ask you to follow it. Because in your heart you already know what you want to do.”

Her eyes mist up and she pushes my head back down to her chest. “I will,” she says. “I promise. I will.”

I wrap my arms tightly around her and hold her until I start to feel sleepy. I feel more at home, more at ease than I ever thought I could again. She has been busy putting her store together. I’ve been helping her paint, hang shelving, and it has been one of the most wonderful times of our lives together. And every day it gets a little easier, we slip a little closer to what we once considered normal. I don’t know if we will ever be back to that innocence we once had because too much has happened to sap us of that innocence. But together, we’re slowly healing, slowly recovering.

And together we can do anything.

The End