Page 28 of Longing for Liberty
Jeremy stared at a tree and said under his breath, “He’s taken an interest in you?”
My stomach turned. “I…think so.”
“What can we do?”
I brushed a bug from a stem and whispered, “I asked to be moved, but she said no.”
His jaw flexed, and he grasped the back of his neck. “Damn it, Lib…I can’t…I don’t?—”
“I know. We have to stay calm,” I urged him, knowing it was ironic that I was the one saying that. The only time I seemed to be able to stay calm was when it was my turn to be strong for someone else.
“Fuck.” He grasped both hands behind his head and paced.
I peered out into the garden to make sure nobody was paying attention and no drones were nearby. Jeremy’s body language could gain attention, and people were nosier than ever. And then a buzzing sound came from afar, behind the nearest building.
“Drop your arms,” I begged him, and he complied immediately, clearing his throat and getting control of himself just as the drone sped around the corner. I pointed to a perfect-looking apple as the humming machine hovered overhead, and Jeremy gave a nod. Finally, it sped away.
I took Jeremy’s hand and gave it a tug to make him look at me. We stood facing each other, and I saw the moisture in his eyes.
“I’ll be okay,” I told him. “It won’t be forever. He’ll eventually get bored.”
Those must have been the wrong words to use, because Jeremy’s hands gripped my waist hard, and he looked skyward as a growl of rage rumbled from deep in his throat.
“Shh, babe, please.” My eyes were watering now, too. “We have to be strong.”
I took the back of his head in both of my hands and made him look at me. His eyes were lit from within, and his gaze scoured my face, taking me in like he’d never seen me before. And then he kissed me. Hard. Jeremy never kissed me like this. My belly immediately went up in flames as I kissed him back, pulling his head closer and pressing my hips to his, feeling him grow against me. We were both breathing hard.
“Take me home,” I whispered against his lips.
He took my hand and led me all the way, his strides purposeful. The moment we were inside with the door shut behind us, we were kissing against the wall, pushing clothing up and off, down and off, our hands grasping. He stripped me completely naked and picked me up, something he hadn’t done since before we had kids, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, kissing him as he walked us into the living room.
“Sit down,” I told him.
He dropped back onto the sofa with me still astride, and I rode him, grinding our bodies together, our foreheads touching as I felt myself coming undone. The curtainless window was at my back, and we seemed to be racing against time, knowing a forceman or drone could pass through the dry, grassy area at any moment. I didn’t have to tell Jeremy when I was going to climax. He could read me. And like the hundreds of times before, we came together, but this time, we desperately clung to each other during and afterward, my arms around his shoulders. Tears streamed down my face as my husband whispered, barely audible, into my ear.
“You’re mine.”
“Yes,” I whispered back.
And I clung tighter.
ELEVEN
STATE NEWS: VP WALINGER GIVES HOPE-FILLED SPEECH: “TO BE ILL IS TO BE CLOSER TO HEAVEN.”
Sundays were church days.A full eight hours. I grew up in the church, and I still clung to a thread of that faith. Maybe it was crazy at this point, but for me, faith had always been synonymous with hope, ideas I’d once held as sacred and beautiful. Now, both faith and hope felt different. Tinged. Marred. My beliefs, however, were of a loving entity who gave free will, not the fire and brimstone spoken of every Sunday. Church now was a mandatory place and time. The church was not the people.
Still, I found I was able to drown out the shouted teachings reminding us of our time of darkness before Roan and enjoy the two aspects I’d come to love: singing the hymns and my two hours of nursery duty. Singing hymns a-cappella was interesting. Instruments were not allowed. Music wasn’t allowed, in general. So there was something immeasurably pleasing about raising our voices together, the men and women harmonizing. There was always someone singing horribly off-key, and one woman who warbled in a loud operatic voice. Sometimes Jeremy would squeeze my hand when she belted out a high note, and I didn’t dare look at him for fear of laughing.
And then there were the babies. So many of them. I felt lucky to have landed this duty. Diapers and spit-up didn’t bother me. Nor did their constant runny noses, though I kept my hands washed when no one was looking. I soaked in their sounds and sweetness like it was rocket fuel for my soul.
God, I missed my children.
Each day, I felt like I lost more memories, and if I let myself ponder it for more than a split second, I would be pulled under. I would drown in melancholy and then float up, only to burn in rage the moment my body hit sunlight.
No, no, no, I couldn’t think of what I’d lost. What we’d all lost.
I was already glum when it was time for the women’s prayer group. Every week we prayed for illnesses. Usually I had my guard up, my internal wall of numbness, but today I was raw. A woman spoke of two families with six-year-old daughters who were bedridden with fevers and horrible coughs. I knew the girls and their mothers—well, as much as you could know someone in these times. But I’d held the girls as toddlers and helped them learn their colors with blocks. Now they were coughing up blood, hardly able to breathe, and hallucinating with high fevers. Their poor little bodies. As we bowed our heads, my body was wracked with a sob that came up from my soul.
