“It is a miracle,” he says. “You are my miracle, my heart.”
“Stay with me,” I urge him. “Don’t go. I miss you.”
And I do. I miss everything about him. His scent, his smile, his fingers, his arms. Those things are all mine, and I want them always.
His smile is sad now. “I wish I could stay, my rabbit. But I cannot. We have this moment.”
He kisses my neck, then my breasts, then takes my body with his own. It’s fiery and hot and possessive, and then he’s gone.
And instead of daydreaming in the rose garden, I wake up in bed. I have no idea how I got here, with the sheets clenched around my fists.
“Why are you up?” Richard snaps from the other side of the bed. “Stop moaning.”
I was moaning?
My dream was so real. I thought I’d been daydreaming.
But when I pull my hand to my mouth, I catch a whiff of Phillip, and I’m gob-smacked. My imagination is strong. That much is certain. Nonetheless, I go to sleep with my fingers tucked under my nose, so that I can breathe in the smell of my Love.
* * *
Night after night, I dream of Phillip.
As my belly grows, my dreams get stronger, and longer. They last all through the night, and because of that, I never want to get out of bed. I want to stay in my sheets, because that is where Phillip is.
“Get up, you lazy wench,” Richard finally tells me one morning. “Everyone is talking.”
“I’m pregnant,” I tell him. “I have an excuse. I don’t feel well.”
“I don’t care how you feel,” he says coldly. “You should’ve thought of that before you opened your legs.”
I look away and grit my teeth because I have no defense. He leaves and for a brief second, I wonder where he goes every day, does he spy on Laura? Does his visit brothels to contain his lust? I don’t want him to think that I care, so I don’t ask. He wouldn’t tell me anyway.
I lie back down, my cheek pressed into my pillow. My mother is due to visit with me today, and sure enough, before I get settled, she breezes into my rooms, a basket of things in her hand.
“How are you today, my love?” she asks, and I watch her assess me, her eyes taking in my state. “How do you feel?”
“I feel like a prisoner,” I tell her honestly. “I hate it here.”
“Are you still dreaming of him?”
I’d told her of my dreams last week, and she’d been so very interested. I nod.
“Yes. Every night.”
“
And this brings you comfort?”
My mother waits.
I nod. “Yes.”
“Does he speak to you in these dreams?”
“He says many things,” I tell her honestly. “So many things.”
She hands me a cup of hot tea, and strokes my brow. “Then take comfort in that, my love. We all must do what it takes to endure.”