Page 34 of Christmas Sunrise
"Apology accepted," I say, throwing the banana peel in a bin we walk past. "Now shall we talk about the rest of the iceberg?"
"Iceberg?" Marty asks.
"The anger iceberg. Have we never spoken about this?" I'm genuinely surprised. Marty and I have both done therapy plus I often share the research I do with him.
"I don't think so."
"It's the idea that while we may seem angry or act angrily on the outside, there are other emotions behind it. Like the anger is just the tip of the iceberg, but there's a lot more hidden underneath."
Marty shakes his head and smiles. "You and your pretty little brain."
I try to ignore how my core heats and tightens with his praise, but it's almost impossible. Still, I keep talking. "For me, I can see now that there were many other emotions behind my anger last night. I have been feeling..." I stop talking, scared that my next words will be replaced by tears.
"You can talk to me, Jenna," Marty reminds me as we come to the spot where we usually cross the road. I feel more relief than I should when his hand comes out of his pocket and finds mine.
"You don't have to hold my hand," I say in a quiet voice.
"I want to hold your hand. You're my woman and I want to make sure you cross this road safely," he says before turning his attention to checking there's no oncoming traffic, which there isn't. In fact, we haven't seen a single soul since we left the house, and there's that magical emptiness in the air that you only experience on Christmas Day.
Marty's words strike a chord in me. I know he's talking about the road that we now traverse as we approach the entrance to the park, but perhaps I can allow him to hold my hand as we cross the road of talking about things I wish we didn't have to talk about. I chew on this idea comfortably as we continue to walk in silence.
As we make our way further into the park, both dogs pick up speed, especially as we climb the hill towards the area where we can take them off their leads. I'm not sure if that's why Marty doesn't prompt me to finish talking, or if it's what makes me also stay silent, but once we have unleashed Rocky and AJ, and we're standing still, watching them race off in the dull pre-dawn light, I finally feel ready.
"I'm so scared, Marty," I say looking up at him.
He turns to face me, worry creasing his brow. "What are you scared about, Jenna?"
"I'm scared it's not going to happen. I'm scared it will happen but then we'll lose the baby. I'm scared it will happen and there will be problems, complications. I'm scared that whatever happens, it will open us up to the worst kind of pain, the worst imaginable sort of loss."
Marty looks down at me in earnest, his expression serious and firm, which is not at all what I expect. Whenever we've talked about this in the past, albeit mostly in fleeting conversations that we book-ended with happier topics like picking out baby names or discussing paint colours for their bedroom, Marty has been quick to crack a joke, to do or say something that makes me smile, or to simply distract me by kissing my neck or whispering in my ear what he wants to do to my body, minutes before doing it. But now he doesn't even have a cheeky grin for me.
"I'm scared too," he says instead. "I'm really fucken scared."
His words break me. Great big bullying sobs lunge out of me faster than I can even think about stopping them. But they don't break me in the way I thought they would. They don't add to the already heavy burden I was carrying, what with it being my reproductive organs we are relying on to do the bulk of the work in this dynamic, nor do they sharpen the acidic bitterness I feel about my age. They break me because they give me permission to fall apart. I don't want Marty to be scared, but, if he is, then at least I'm not alone.
His strong arms grab me and bring me against his chest. As they hold my body close to his, I continue to cry, whimpering, and eventually hyperventilating. When I feel moisture on the top of my head and feel his chest bounce, I tighten my grip on Marty.
I don't know how long we stay like that, but it's long enough for AJ to start nuzzling his head against our legs, trying to be part of our embrace. He's always been aware of our moods, mine especially, and I'm not surprised seeing us crying like this has him wanting to try and help. But still, I don't move to pick up or reassure AJ. I have Marty to comfort first.
When I pull back, I can see more clearly, and not just metaphorically. The sun has started to rise behind us and a grey-gold light illuminates the sky.
"I'm sorry you're scared too," I say finally, cupping Marty's face with one of my gloved hands.
He shakes his head, but not strongly enough that I lose my grip. "No, you're not to be sorry about that. Ever. That's why I haven't told you before that I'm scared and worried and stressed about it all. Because I don't want you to think that's your fault. It's not because of your age or because you haven't got pregnant yet."
I can't tell him I don't think that, but I can tell him I'll work on it. "I promise to try not to blame myself."
"Try really fucken hard, Jenna. Please."
I nod and press my lips together, a fresh batch of tears surfacing in my eyes.
"But I also need you to be honest with me," Marty continues. "And I'll do the same. None of this British brave face nonsense. None of this stiff upper lip shite. Not anymore. We both want to have a baby, right? We both want to make a family together, yes?"
I nod again.
"No matter what that takes? No matter what it looks like? Even if it just ends up being us and these feral hounds?" He lifts his head towards the dogs because AJ has left us now and instead is trying to keep up with Rocky, a task he’ll never succeed at.
"Yes," I whisper.
