Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Apr 30, 2008 21:25:40 GMT -5
Title: The Center of My Universe
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events or any of the characters or places mentioned herein. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler. However, the characters of Emma Squalor and Dr. Leer belong to me.
Rating: PG-13 (for subject matter and a sexual reference at the end)
Genre: Drama/Romance
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summery: Sequel to The Secret. Jerome takes Esmé to her doctor’s appointment and afterward the two spend a day out together. I’m not sure if this was even worth writing about, but I wanted to give it a shot anyway.
Author’s Note: Like the last fic, this one also deals with female issues. I just thought I’d warn those of you who don’t particularly enjoy reading about that sort of thing.
“Are you almost ready to go, darling?”
Esmé Gigi Genevieve Squalor was seated at her vanity applying the last of her baby-blue eye shadow, when the voice of her husband had echoed from the doorway.
“I made you an appointment with Dr. Leer for nine-thirty,” Jerome said as he shuffled into the master bedroom. “Perhaps afterward we could stop at one of those little street-corner cafés for a late breakfast. Then I thought I could take you shopping for some new clothes. Would you like that?”
Esmé nodded, although the prospect of trying anything on when she still had the baby-fat hanging on from Emma’s birth was more than a little intimidating. But as Jerome stood there in the doorway smiling at his wife, Esmé could not help but give in.
“Alright,” she said, and smiled softly to let her husband know just how much she appreciated his kind offer.
“How are your cramps?” Jerome asked as he came over and ran his fingers through Esmé’s lilac-scented hair, which she had just washed.
“Much better, thank you.”
“Dr. Leer will be able to prescribe something that will help you.” Leaning down, Jerome kissed the top of Esmé’s head. “You smell wonderful.”
“We should go, Jerome,” Esmé told him. “Being fashionably late is in, but being late for personal reasons is most definitely out.”
Jerome found a spot to park his dark blue Lexis within moments of pulling into the front parking lot of Dr. Leer’s private practice. Esmé sat quietly while Jerome got out and came around to the passenger’s side of the car where he opened her door for her.
“Thank you, honey,” Esmé said as Jerome took one of her delicate hands in his and helped her to slide out of the car.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, reaching behind her and closing the door.
The Squalors made their way across the parking lot to the front doors of Dr. Leer’s office. As Jerome held the door open for Esmé, she smiled sweetly at him. He smiled back, if not a little shyly, and the two of them went inside.
Esmé had a seat in one of the five or six available chairs and set her pocketbook down in her lap while Jerome went to sign her in. He returned to her side a moment later and once again took her hand in his, this time to kiss it.
“Do you think I should mention to Dr. Leer about hitting my head against the wall?” Esmé asked.
“It can’t hurt,” Jerome answered, and Esmé smiled. “It isn’t funny, Esmé. You could have really hurt yourself.”
Esmé’s smiled faltered, and she lowered her eyes to the ground. “I’m sorry, Jerome.”
Still holding Esmé’s hand, Jerome put his other arm around her and let her rest her head on his shoulder. He was just starting to feel as though he might cry when the door separating the waiting area from the examination area opened, and Dr. Leer appeared.
“Good morning,” he said. “How are you two this fine spring morning?”
“Hello, Dr. Leer,” Jerome said. “We’re both fine, thank you.” He turned to his wife. “Esmé, would you—”
“Will you come with me?” asked Esmé, answering the question before her husband could finish asking it.
“Yes, darling, of course.”
Dr. Leer led the Squalors through the door and into an examination room. There were only two chairs— one by the desk in which Dr. Leer seated himself, and another by the door where Esmé sat down. Rather than sit on top of the examination table, Jerome instead chose to stand against the wall beside his wife.
As usual, Dr. Leer began the appointment by asking questions that had absolutely nothing to do with his patient’s medical condition. “So, how is little Emma?” he inquired. “Has she begun forming complete sentences yet?”
Esmé and Jerome smiled at each other. Turning back to Dr. Leer, Esmé replied, “The other day she said ‘Dada is a dimwit’ when Jerome opened a bottle of parsley soda and it exploded on him.”
“I was only opening it because you asked me to, dear,” Jerome replied. Although it was apparent that he was embarrassed, he was unable to keep from smiling.
Dr. Leer smiled. “I wish I could have been there,” he said. “And how is Carmelita doing? Is she still suffering from nightmares?”
“Yes,” Esmé said. “But thankfully, they aren’t as frequent. And, from what she’s told us, nowhere near as intense.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” replied Dr. Leer. “Esmé, Jerome tells me that your periods have been a little irregular lately. When did that start?”
“About three months ago.”
Dr. Leer nodded thoughtfully. “I see. And you didn’t find this at all questionable?”
“Well, not at first,” Esmé admitted. “I wanted to wait and rule out the idea that I could be pregnant again. I took a test and it was negative. I suppose that’s when I realized there was something wrong.”
“I can see where you would draw upon that conclusion,” Dr. Leer said. “You see, sometimes women in their twenties and thirties experience irregular menstruation. But it isn’t anything to really worry about.”
“Are there any accompanying symptoms?” asked Jerome.
“There can be. Moodiness, for instance. And depression, which is also a common one.”
“What concerns me, doctor, is how this is affecting my wife’s already existing post-partum depression.”
“I’m not a therapist, Mr. Squalor,” Dr. Leer said patiently, “and so I can’t properly examine Esmé psychologically. That is her therapist’s territory, not mine. The only assistance I can give her is in prescribing something that will help stabilize her mood.” He paused, then turned back to Esmé. “How has your mood been lately? Have you noticed any changes in the last three months?”
Remembering what they had discussed in the waiting room, Esmé looked over at Jerome, who nodded. Turning back to Dr. Leer, Esmé said, “Yes.”
“What kinds of changes?”
“Well, there’s really only been one.”
“Which is?”
Closing her eyes, Esmé lowered her head before continuing. “I’m not sure why,” she said softly, “but I’ve been having these overwhelming feelings of self-loathing. Every month, for about one to two weeks at a time, all I can think of is how much I want to hurt myself. I even think of ways I can do it, but—”
“Have you ever acted on these thoughts?” Dr. Leer said.
Esmé opened her eyes and lifted her head to look at the doctor. “Only once,” she said. “Last month.”
“What did you do?”
Esmé could practically see the horrified look on Jerome’s face that she had seen the first time she had told him what she was about to tell Dr. Leer. “I hit my head against the wall,” Esmé said.
From beside her, Jerome let out a trembling breath. Esmé reached for his hand, and he squeezed it gently.
“Why did you do that?” Dr. Leer asked.
Esmé brought Jerome’s hand closer and pressed it against her cheek. “Because I hate myself,” she replied. “Or at least I did while I was doing it.”
“And what made you feel that way?”
Jerome felt two tears roll down his cheeks as he swallowed back a sob. He took out his handkerchief from his pocket and quickly wiped the tears away.
“Because I don’t like what I see every time I look in the mirror,” Esmé said. “Because ever since I had my daughter, none of my old garments seem to fit me right anymore.”
At that moment, Esmé felt Jerome’s arm slip around her shoulders. He appeared to be trembling, and for the first time in a long time, she found herself feeling very guilty indeed.
“I’m sorry, Jerome.”
“Once again,” Dr. Leer said, “I’m no therapist, but judging by all you’ve told me, it appears as though your post-partum depression symptoms and your post-minstrel symptoms are clashing. I’m going to put you on a very low dose of birth-control pills, which I will write you a prescription for. They’ll assist with the post-minstrel symptoms and help get your periods back on track.”
While Dr. Leer was bent over his desk scribbling out a prescription, Esmé turned to Jerome. It was the first time since she had revealed the reason behind her self-loathing that she dared to meet his eyes. She was not surprised to see that there were tears welling up inside those breathtaking emerald orbs, or that the expression on his face was no different than it had been the morning she had escaped from Veblen Hall with Count Olaf.
Esmé was just about to tell Jerome again how sorry she was for not telling him the whole truth behind her behavior when there was a tearing sound, and Dr. Leer handed her the prescription.
“Here you are, Esmé,” he said. “I hope you feel better soon.”
“Thank you, Dr. Leer,” Esmé said, and dropped the piece of paper into her pocketbook.
“Are you very angry with me?” Esmé asked as soon as she and Jerome were back inside the Lexis.
“No, Esmé,” Jerome replied as he started up the car. “I’m just very concerned.”
“I promise I won’t try to hurt myself anymore.”
“I know you won’t, sweetheart.”
“Then why are you so worried?”
Jerome pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway before answering his wife’s question. “Because,” he said, “I don’t see why anyone should be this distraught just because they aren’t a size six.”
“I was a four, Jerome,” Esmé corrected him firmly.
Jerome sighed, but kept his eyes on the road. The last thing he needed was to get into an argument with his wife and crash the car.
“I don’t care if you were a four or a fourteen,” he replied calmly. “That is no reason to physically harm yourself.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the first time you asked me about it,” Esmé said. “But I thought… I was worried that it would just upset you even more.”
“I am your husband, Esmé, and you are my wife. You’re supposed to share these kinds of things with me.”
“I will from now on, Jerome. I promise.”
Jerome nodded as he pulled up to the drive-through window of the pharmacy. He spoke briefly to the pharmacist and then dropped the prescription into the drawer before turning to Esmé.
“I love every last one of your new curves,” Jerome said. “From the little indentation between your ribcage and your bellybutton, to the lovely curve of your stomach and your beautiful hips. Everything about you is so perfect, Esmé. Why oh why can’t you see that?”
Esmé felt happy tears beginning to weld up inside her eyes when the drawer opened, this time with the bag containing her prescription medication. Jerome reached for it and then handed it to Esmé, who dropped it into her pocketbook.
He paid the pharmacist and then drove away.
Esmé and Jerome stopped for brunch at a lovely little street-corner café near the Clothing District, taking a seat outside at a booth with an umbrella over it. Jerome ordered a cappuccino and a plate of pancakes, while Esmé settled on just a hot cocoa with whipped cream.
“Are you sure that’s all you want, darling?” Jerome asked.
Esmé nodded as she lifted her hot cocoa to her lips and sipped it, the whipped cream sticking to the tip of her nose the way it always did. Jerome smiled.
“What?” Esmé said.
“Nothing.” Jerome reached across the table and scooped away the whipped cream from his wife’s nose with the tip of his finger, licking it.
Esmé smiled.
“It’s nice to see you smile again,” Jerome said. “I’ve missed it.”
“Have you?” Esmé asked.
“Yes.”
Esmé set down her mug and stared at her husband. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”
“Every day since you’ve been back,” Jerome said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a bite of these pancakes? They’re blueberry-flavored and very delicious.”
“No thank you, honey,” Esmé replied.
“Esmé, I was thinking. Perhaps we should go home after this instead of shopping for clothes. I was thinking we could wait a while until you’re feeling better.”
“Jerome, really, I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
“I am.”
Jerome nodded and took another (hesitant) bite of his pancakes. “Alright,” he said, a tone of uncertainty lurking deep within his voice.
Jerome was standing before a table displaying a variety of neckties when he heard a familiar wail as it emanated from one of the changing rooms. He practically knocked over a display of women’s brassieres just trying to make it to the changing room before anyone else did.
He had no trouble figuring out which door Esmé was behind, because a number of both customers and sales staff had already gathered around one of the changing rooms. Ignoring them all, Jerome knocked softly on the door and said in a voice that he was sure his wife could hear: “Esmé, it’s me. Are you alright?”
No answer.
“Esmé, please open the door. If you don’t then I’ll be forced to crawl in through the bottom, and I’m not sure I’ll fit.”
Suddenly, there was the sound of a latch turning from the other side of the door, followed by a soft creak as it opened a crack. One blue eye peered out at Jerome, followed by a tearful, “Come in.”
Biting his bottom lip, he slid in through the door and shut it behind him, remembering to lock it. He turned to see his wife standing before him, clad in nothing but her undergarments. Both of her hands were shielding her belly, the one part of her body that she was most self-conscious about.
As Jerome looked around the room he saw the outfits that Esmé had brought in to try on, none of which appeared to have been removed from the hangers.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Jerome asked, and reached over to caress Esmé’s cheek.
Esmé pointed one long-nailed finger at the mirror.
Slowly, Jerome took her by the hands and turned her around. So she wouldn’t try to shield her stomach with them, he held her thin wrists behind her back.
“Look at yourself, Esmé. Look closely at your reflection. Look at what a ravishing depiction of beauty you are.”
When it appeared as though his wife was not going to say anything, Jerome let go of her wrists and laced his arms around her waist. He stopped directly at her bellybutton, where he positioned his thumbs and fingers into the shape of a heart around it.
“Look at you,” Jerome said. “Just look at how much more beautiful you’ve become.”
“Do you really think so?” Esmé asked.
Jerome tilted his head a little and kissed her on the cheek. “Yes, darling. I do.”
“Jerome…” Sniffling back a tear, Esmé lay both of her hands on top of her husband’s and smiled. “You’re so wonderful.”
Jerome pressed his hands gently against Esmé’s belly, closing his eyes in order to concentrate wholly on how soft and sweet it was. As tears began to roll down her cheeks, Esmé reached up with one of her long, slender arms and laid her hand on her husband’s broad shoulder. She then turned back to the mirror for the second time since she had entered the changing room. Between the contented smile on her husband’s face and the part of her body where his hands had ended up, she could hardly say she minded what she saw now as she looked in the mirror.
Esmé was so busy admiring their reflections that she hadn’t realized that one of Jerome’s hands had let go of her until she heard him ask, “What’s this?”
She watched through the mirror as her husband reached for a pink midriff sweater with short sleeves that was hanging from a hook on the wall.
“I didn’t pick it out,” Esmé told him. “It was here when I came in.”
“It’s cute,” Jerome said. “You should try it on.”
“Even when it shows my—”
“All the more reason to try it on.”
Before Esmé could protest, Jerome had already removed the sweater from its hanger and was sliding it down over her head. Her arms went easily through the sleeves of the sweater and fitted perfectly over her ribcage.
“Oh, Esmé,” Jerome marveled. “Oh, darling, you look positively exquisite!”
“Do I?” Esmé asked, a small smile creeping around the corner of her bright red mouth.
Jerome answered Esmé’s question quickly, but not in the way one would expect a question to be answered. Instead, she received her answer as soon as she felt something that was both very hard and very familiar as it poked its way into the small of her back.
“Oh, Jerome…”
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events or any of the characters or places mentioned herein. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler. However, the characters of Emma Squalor and Dr. Leer belong to me.
Rating: PG-13 (for subject matter and a sexual reference at the end)
Genre: Drama/Romance
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summery: Sequel to The Secret. Jerome takes Esmé to her doctor’s appointment and afterward the two spend a day out together. I’m not sure if this was even worth writing about, but I wanted to give it a shot anyway.
Author’s Note: Like the last fic, this one also deals with female issues. I just thought I’d warn those of you who don’t particularly enjoy reading about that sort of thing.
************************************************************************************************************************
“Are you almost ready to go, darling?”
Esmé Gigi Genevieve Squalor was seated at her vanity applying the last of her baby-blue eye shadow, when the voice of her husband had echoed from the doorway.
“I made you an appointment with Dr. Leer for nine-thirty,” Jerome said as he shuffled into the master bedroom. “Perhaps afterward we could stop at one of those little street-corner cafés for a late breakfast. Then I thought I could take you shopping for some new clothes. Would you like that?”
Esmé nodded, although the prospect of trying anything on when she still had the baby-fat hanging on from Emma’s birth was more than a little intimidating. But as Jerome stood there in the doorway smiling at his wife, Esmé could not help but give in.
“Alright,” she said, and smiled softly to let her husband know just how much she appreciated his kind offer.
“How are your cramps?” Jerome asked as he came over and ran his fingers through Esmé’s lilac-scented hair, which she had just washed.
“Much better, thank you.”
“Dr. Leer will be able to prescribe something that will help you.” Leaning down, Jerome kissed the top of Esmé’s head. “You smell wonderful.”
“We should go, Jerome,” Esmé told him. “Being fashionably late is in, but being late for personal reasons is most definitely out.”
***
Jerome found a spot to park his dark blue Lexis within moments of pulling into the front parking lot of Dr. Leer’s private practice. Esmé sat quietly while Jerome got out and came around to the passenger’s side of the car where he opened her door for her.
“Thank you, honey,” Esmé said as Jerome took one of her delicate hands in his and helped her to slide out of the car.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, reaching behind her and closing the door.
The Squalors made their way across the parking lot to the front doors of Dr. Leer’s office. As Jerome held the door open for Esmé, she smiled sweetly at him. He smiled back, if not a little shyly, and the two of them went inside.
Esmé had a seat in one of the five or six available chairs and set her pocketbook down in her lap while Jerome went to sign her in. He returned to her side a moment later and once again took her hand in his, this time to kiss it.
“Do you think I should mention to Dr. Leer about hitting my head against the wall?” Esmé asked.
“It can’t hurt,” Jerome answered, and Esmé smiled. “It isn’t funny, Esmé. You could have really hurt yourself.”
Esmé’s smiled faltered, and she lowered her eyes to the ground. “I’m sorry, Jerome.”
Still holding Esmé’s hand, Jerome put his other arm around her and let her rest her head on his shoulder. He was just starting to feel as though he might cry when the door separating the waiting area from the examination area opened, and Dr. Leer appeared.
“Good morning,” he said. “How are you two this fine spring morning?”
“Hello, Dr. Leer,” Jerome said. “We’re both fine, thank you.” He turned to his wife. “Esmé, would you—”
“Will you come with me?” asked Esmé, answering the question before her husband could finish asking it.
“Yes, darling, of course.”
Dr. Leer led the Squalors through the door and into an examination room. There were only two chairs— one by the desk in which Dr. Leer seated himself, and another by the door where Esmé sat down. Rather than sit on top of the examination table, Jerome instead chose to stand against the wall beside his wife.
As usual, Dr. Leer began the appointment by asking questions that had absolutely nothing to do with his patient’s medical condition. “So, how is little Emma?” he inquired. “Has she begun forming complete sentences yet?”
Esmé and Jerome smiled at each other. Turning back to Dr. Leer, Esmé replied, “The other day she said ‘Dada is a dimwit’ when Jerome opened a bottle of parsley soda and it exploded on him.”
“I was only opening it because you asked me to, dear,” Jerome replied. Although it was apparent that he was embarrassed, he was unable to keep from smiling.
Dr. Leer smiled. “I wish I could have been there,” he said. “And how is Carmelita doing? Is she still suffering from nightmares?”
“Yes,” Esmé said. “But thankfully, they aren’t as frequent. And, from what she’s told us, nowhere near as intense.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” replied Dr. Leer. “Esmé, Jerome tells me that your periods have been a little irregular lately. When did that start?”
“About three months ago.”
Dr. Leer nodded thoughtfully. “I see. And you didn’t find this at all questionable?”
“Well, not at first,” Esmé admitted. “I wanted to wait and rule out the idea that I could be pregnant again. I took a test and it was negative. I suppose that’s when I realized there was something wrong.”
“I can see where you would draw upon that conclusion,” Dr. Leer said. “You see, sometimes women in their twenties and thirties experience irregular menstruation. But it isn’t anything to really worry about.”
“Are there any accompanying symptoms?” asked Jerome.
“There can be. Moodiness, for instance. And depression, which is also a common one.”
“What concerns me, doctor, is how this is affecting my wife’s already existing post-partum depression.”
“I’m not a therapist, Mr. Squalor,” Dr. Leer said patiently, “and so I can’t properly examine Esmé psychologically. That is her therapist’s territory, not mine. The only assistance I can give her is in prescribing something that will help stabilize her mood.” He paused, then turned back to Esmé. “How has your mood been lately? Have you noticed any changes in the last three months?”
Remembering what they had discussed in the waiting room, Esmé looked over at Jerome, who nodded. Turning back to Dr. Leer, Esmé said, “Yes.”
“What kinds of changes?”
“Well, there’s really only been one.”
“Which is?”
Closing her eyes, Esmé lowered her head before continuing. “I’m not sure why,” she said softly, “but I’ve been having these overwhelming feelings of self-loathing. Every month, for about one to two weeks at a time, all I can think of is how much I want to hurt myself. I even think of ways I can do it, but—”
“Have you ever acted on these thoughts?” Dr. Leer said.
Esmé opened her eyes and lifted her head to look at the doctor. “Only once,” she said. “Last month.”
“What did you do?”
Esmé could practically see the horrified look on Jerome’s face that she had seen the first time she had told him what she was about to tell Dr. Leer. “I hit my head against the wall,” Esmé said.
From beside her, Jerome let out a trembling breath. Esmé reached for his hand, and he squeezed it gently.
“Why did you do that?” Dr. Leer asked.
Esmé brought Jerome’s hand closer and pressed it against her cheek. “Because I hate myself,” she replied. “Or at least I did while I was doing it.”
“And what made you feel that way?”
Jerome felt two tears roll down his cheeks as he swallowed back a sob. He took out his handkerchief from his pocket and quickly wiped the tears away.
“Because I don’t like what I see every time I look in the mirror,” Esmé said. “Because ever since I had my daughter, none of my old garments seem to fit me right anymore.”
At that moment, Esmé felt Jerome’s arm slip around her shoulders. He appeared to be trembling, and for the first time in a long time, she found herself feeling very guilty indeed.
“I’m sorry, Jerome.”
“Once again,” Dr. Leer said, “I’m no therapist, but judging by all you’ve told me, it appears as though your post-partum depression symptoms and your post-minstrel symptoms are clashing. I’m going to put you on a very low dose of birth-control pills, which I will write you a prescription for. They’ll assist with the post-minstrel symptoms and help get your periods back on track.”
While Dr. Leer was bent over his desk scribbling out a prescription, Esmé turned to Jerome. It was the first time since she had revealed the reason behind her self-loathing that she dared to meet his eyes. She was not surprised to see that there were tears welling up inside those breathtaking emerald orbs, or that the expression on his face was no different than it had been the morning she had escaped from Veblen Hall with Count Olaf.
Esmé was just about to tell Jerome again how sorry she was for not telling him the whole truth behind her behavior when there was a tearing sound, and Dr. Leer handed her the prescription.
“Here you are, Esmé,” he said. “I hope you feel better soon.”
“Thank you, Dr. Leer,” Esmé said, and dropped the piece of paper into her pocketbook.
***
“Are you very angry with me?” Esmé asked as soon as she and Jerome were back inside the Lexis.
“No, Esmé,” Jerome replied as he started up the car. “I’m just very concerned.”
“I promise I won’t try to hurt myself anymore.”
“I know you won’t, sweetheart.”
“Then why are you so worried?”
Jerome pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway before answering his wife’s question. “Because,” he said, “I don’t see why anyone should be this distraught just because they aren’t a size six.”
“I was a four, Jerome,” Esmé corrected him firmly.
Jerome sighed, but kept his eyes on the road. The last thing he needed was to get into an argument with his wife and crash the car.
“I don’t care if you were a four or a fourteen,” he replied calmly. “That is no reason to physically harm yourself.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the first time you asked me about it,” Esmé said. “But I thought… I was worried that it would just upset you even more.”
“I am your husband, Esmé, and you are my wife. You’re supposed to share these kinds of things with me.”
“I will from now on, Jerome. I promise.”
Jerome nodded as he pulled up to the drive-through window of the pharmacy. He spoke briefly to the pharmacist and then dropped the prescription into the drawer before turning to Esmé.
“I love every last one of your new curves,” Jerome said. “From the little indentation between your ribcage and your bellybutton, to the lovely curve of your stomach and your beautiful hips. Everything about you is so perfect, Esmé. Why oh why can’t you see that?”
Esmé felt happy tears beginning to weld up inside her eyes when the drawer opened, this time with the bag containing her prescription medication. Jerome reached for it and then handed it to Esmé, who dropped it into her pocketbook.
He paid the pharmacist and then drove away.
***
Esmé and Jerome stopped for brunch at a lovely little street-corner café near the Clothing District, taking a seat outside at a booth with an umbrella over it. Jerome ordered a cappuccino and a plate of pancakes, while Esmé settled on just a hot cocoa with whipped cream.
“Are you sure that’s all you want, darling?” Jerome asked.
Esmé nodded as she lifted her hot cocoa to her lips and sipped it, the whipped cream sticking to the tip of her nose the way it always did. Jerome smiled.
“What?” Esmé said.
“Nothing.” Jerome reached across the table and scooped away the whipped cream from his wife’s nose with the tip of his finger, licking it.
Esmé smiled.
“It’s nice to see you smile again,” Jerome said. “I’ve missed it.”
“Have you?” Esmé asked.
“Yes.”
Esmé set down her mug and stared at her husband. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”
“Every day since you’ve been back,” Jerome said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a bite of these pancakes? They’re blueberry-flavored and very delicious.”
“No thank you, honey,” Esmé replied.
“Esmé, I was thinking. Perhaps we should go home after this instead of shopping for clothes. I was thinking we could wait a while until you’re feeling better.”
“Jerome, really, I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
“I am.”
Jerome nodded and took another (hesitant) bite of his pancakes. “Alright,” he said, a tone of uncertainty lurking deep within his voice.
***
Jerome was standing before a table displaying a variety of neckties when he heard a familiar wail as it emanated from one of the changing rooms. He practically knocked over a display of women’s brassieres just trying to make it to the changing room before anyone else did.
He had no trouble figuring out which door Esmé was behind, because a number of both customers and sales staff had already gathered around one of the changing rooms. Ignoring them all, Jerome knocked softly on the door and said in a voice that he was sure his wife could hear: “Esmé, it’s me. Are you alright?”
No answer.
“Esmé, please open the door. If you don’t then I’ll be forced to crawl in through the bottom, and I’m not sure I’ll fit.”
Suddenly, there was the sound of a latch turning from the other side of the door, followed by a soft creak as it opened a crack. One blue eye peered out at Jerome, followed by a tearful, “Come in.”
Biting his bottom lip, he slid in through the door and shut it behind him, remembering to lock it. He turned to see his wife standing before him, clad in nothing but her undergarments. Both of her hands were shielding her belly, the one part of her body that she was most self-conscious about.
As Jerome looked around the room he saw the outfits that Esmé had brought in to try on, none of which appeared to have been removed from the hangers.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Jerome asked, and reached over to caress Esmé’s cheek.
Esmé pointed one long-nailed finger at the mirror.
Slowly, Jerome took her by the hands and turned her around. So she wouldn’t try to shield her stomach with them, he held her thin wrists behind her back.
“Look at yourself, Esmé. Look closely at your reflection. Look at what a ravishing depiction of beauty you are.”
When it appeared as though his wife was not going to say anything, Jerome let go of her wrists and laced his arms around her waist. He stopped directly at her bellybutton, where he positioned his thumbs and fingers into the shape of a heart around it.
“Look at you,” Jerome said. “Just look at how much more beautiful you’ve become.”
“Do you really think so?” Esmé asked.
Jerome tilted his head a little and kissed her on the cheek. “Yes, darling. I do.”
“Jerome…” Sniffling back a tear, Esmé lay both of her hands on top of her husband’s and smiled. “You’re so wonderful.”
Jerome pressed his hands gently against Esmé’s belly, closing his eyes in order to concentrate wholly on how soft and sweet it was. As tears began to roll down her cheeks, Esmé reached up with one of her long, slender arms and laid her hand on her husband’s broad shoulder. She then turned back to the mirror for the second time since she had entered the changing room. Between the contented smile on her husband’s face and the part of her body where his hands had ended up, she could hardly say she minded what she saw now as she looked in the mirror.
Esmé was so busy admiring their reflections that she hadn’t realized that one of Jerome’s hands had let go of her until she heard him ask, “What’s this?”
She watched through the mirror as her husband reached for a pink midriff sweater with short sleeves that was hanging from a hook on the wall.
“I didn’t pick it out,” Esmé told him. “It was here when I came in.”
“It’s cute,” Jerome said. “You should try it on.”
“Even when it shows my—”
“All the more reason to try it on.”
Before Esmé could protest, Jerome had already removed the sweater from its hanger and was sliding it down over her head. Her arms went easily through the sleeves of the sweater and fitted perfectly over her ribcage.
“Oh, Esmé,” Jerome marveled. “Oh, darling, you look positively exquisite!”
“Do I?” Esmé asked, a small smile creeping around the corner of her bright red mouth.
Jerome answered Esmé’s question quickly, but not in the way one would expect a question to be answered. Instead, she received her answer as soon as she felt something that was both very hard and very familiar as it poked its way into the small of her back.
“Oh, Jerome…”
The End