Page 26 of Eternally London

A walrus blows kisses to Adam Sandler on the television, and London lets out a content sigh and a small giggle, like she does during this part every time she watches this movie.

God, I love her. There isn’t a woman on this planet better suited for me than London. She’s in no way perfect. Yet, at the same time, she’s absolutely perfect for me.

If our life consisted of nothing but the two of us together for the next sixty years, that would be everything I could wish for and more than I probably deserved. She’s enough. She’s all I need—all I’ll ever need.

I wonder though, is it enough for her? What if we can never have a baby? I haven’t been worried about it up until now, and maybe that’s because my life would be complete with or without a child as long as I had London. Yet, the past several months, I’ve seen a change in her, and it leaves me feeling uneasy. It’s as if she doesn’t just want a baby; she needs one. Mere months of trying, and I feel as if she’s crumbling before me. What’s going to happen if conceiving a child isn’t an option for us?

“London?”

“Yeah?” She turns her head to face me.

“You remember what I told you on our wedding day? That all I’ll ever need in this lifetime is you?”

She swallows hard, and her voice breaks as she says, “Yeah.”

“That’s still true. It will always be true. I just need you. Okay?”

I regret the words almost instantly as London’s eyes widen, lined with anger and fresh tears.

“I’m not saying I’m giving up on a family or anywhere close to that. Just that I know we’ll be okay because we have each other. You know?” I plead for her to understand what I’m trying to say.

She nods. “Yeah.” Her response is rote, not one of agreement.

“I love you,” I say, wishing those three little words really conveyed the enormous feelings that I hold for London.

“I love you, too,” she answers quietly before returning her gaze back toward the movie.

Her response does little to stifle the growing unease within me.

She’s just sad, I remind myself.

Tomorrow will be better.

It will.

It has to be better.

London

“I’m engulfed in darkness, suffocating from its weight, and the worst part is, I can’t seem to care.”

—London Berkeley

I sit in the shower, head bent, the hot spray pelting my back, as I cry. My tears are masked by the streams of water rolling over my skin—not that it matters. Loïc’s not going to pop in for a wet rendezvous. That’s not how it works anymore. Sex is planned and takes place in the bed at the optimal time and position for conception.

God, how things have changed since we started trying in Savannah last May. That was eight months ago, but it might as well be a lifetime. I’m not the same person I was then. Somewhere between periods that insist on arriving and the babies that never do, I’ve lost myself. Amid the tracking, the pills, the shots, and the appointments with doctors that hold medical degrees in false promises, I’ve succumbed to an obscurity I can’t escape.

I’m engulfed in darkness, suffocating from its weight, and the worst part is, I can’t seem to care.

My heart aches constantly for the family I can’t have. Yet, the further I fall, the number I become. Soon, I won’t feel anything.

I turn off the water and dry off.

Bending at the waist, I twist my wet hair into the towel and stand back up. The mirror in front of me is foggy, covered in condensation from the hot steam of my shower. I pull in deep breaths of hot air laced with the taste of mint as I brush my teeth.

I have to have sex with my husband.I sigh.When did having sex with Loïc turn into such a chore?I’d guess it was somewhere between the many negative pregnancy tests and shots in my butt cheek. Nothing kills the sexy like a needle full of evil hormones being jammed into your skin.

Exiting the bathroom, I call Loïc’s name. He doesn’t answer. I walk throughout the house, yelling his name, and still, no response.

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