"Were they little baby trees?"
Saskia narrows her eyes angrily and throws the dogs' ball at me. Of course, Peter and Egon descend upon me while she makes a run for it again. This becomes a literal running gag between us for years. Whenever she isn't getting her way, she runs away and hides. If I find her, I carry her to our bed where her punishment is to be on top. If I can't find her, she allows me to ser-vice her. I win either way.
Even with Saskia retired and Marx gone, we never forget how different our paths were that lead us to find each other. We rarely speak of it, though. When I see Saskia's hands shaking and know she's dealing with a long buried pain from her past, I simply hold her and talk about the present.
One night, we watch a movie with a torture scene in it. Even after I forward through it, Saskia's hands won't stop shaking no matter what I say.
"You and I were on the opposite sides of that table, Brad," she whispers.
"Did you ever... work on someone like me or were they always bad people?" I ask before instantly regretting it. "No, don't answer. It doesn't matter. You weren't my tormentor. I wasn't your victim. The past is over."
Saskia watches me with wet eyes. She cries easily now as if nearly thirty years of stored up tears have finally broken free.
"I never felt anything all those years. Now I feel too much," she says, wiping away the tears. "How do I learn to deal with all this crying?"
"You could talk to a therapist."
"Can I talk to Lawrence? I don't trust just anyone with my secrets."
I agree to set up a time for Lawrence to meet with her. Though Saskia wants to talk to him, she remains distrustful.
"Don't share my secrets or else," she says to Lawrence. "I won't kill you, but I know people who will."
Lawrence doesn't miss a beat. "Ground rules are good. Rule one is no sharing secrets outside out of our sessions. Rule two is no threatening your therapist."
Saskia's hard expression warms. "Well let's get started. First, I better grab a box of tissues."
Therapy doesn't magically fix Saskia anymore than it fixed me. For years, she struggles to come to terms with how she was raised and the guilt of what she did as Little Maven. I can only support her during the dark times, much as she pushes me to leave the house when I'd rather hide.
Saskia often cries out at night, trapped in a nightmare that she can't escape until I wake her. Shaking in my arms, she only wants to go numb again.
"Nightmares mean you're human," I whisper in the darkness. Resting her on the bed, I kiss away her tears before my lips taste her throat. "You felt nothing for a long time. Now you feel all the pain, but you also feel the good stuff."
Saskia melts in my arms, embracing the pleasure this new life offers. The past is never truly dead, and the suffering lingers around us often. We choose not to embrace it, though. With Saskia, I'm no longer a terrified motherfucker. With me, she's no longer the ice princess. Together, the past is simply a bad dream we can now escape.
Epilogue
Saskia
No More Mavens
For whatever reason, I never expect Brad to marry me. His family is non-conventional, and I assume we will live together in blissful sin forever. Instead, he pops the question during an early dinner at a nearly empty restaurant. I should have known something was up when I noticed how nervous he seemed despite the lack of a crowd. I will always laugh about his anxiety. As if in any universe, I'd say no.
Since Brad and I lack friends, poor Rafael is forced to play both the father of the bride and best man at the wedding. I have plenty of bridesmaids, though.
Brad insists we should meet more people, but we never do. Years later when we have kids, we still keep to ourselves. Pretending to be normal people is another lie in a life where I've told too many of them.
The day I find out that I'm pregnant, Brad begins planning renovations to the house. He wants more space on our end for the baby. Watching him organize things, I smile at his excitement. My feelings regarding a child aren't so clear cut.
I've learned a lot from Ruth and Nell. I can cook now. I can also knit and crochet. None of these domestication skills taught to me by motherly figures makes me fit to be a mother. I look at pictures of Brad as a child cuddled in his mother's arms. They seem so natural, but I remain wary of touching anyone who isn't Brad. Even Ruth's hugs make me squirm. While she laughs at my reaction and says I'll learn to submit to her, I'm more worried about how I'll do with my child.
After an ultrasound at five months confirms we're having a daughter, I descend into a deep depression. I suspect my doubts might be easier to deal with if our first child is a boy. I would see Brad in the baby rather than myself.
Ruth is overjoyed and goes crazy with pink. Nell begins knitting pink booties within hours of the ultrasound. I can only think about my daughter seeing me the way I saw my mother.