Skinny Love - Bon Iver
Payton, Now
I'm stepping into a pair of joggers when my phone starts ringing in the master suite. The cotton-blended fabric sticks to my damp skin. The showerhead is dripping behind me, and I make a mental note to fix that. I flick my fingers through my wet hair, then leave the bathroom, swiping my phone off the dresser.
It's April in New Orleans, so every window in the house is open to allow green-tinted sunlight indoors. The air is different here in the South. The molecules are more potent—denser, livelier, cleaner. This is the first day it hasn't rained in a while, and I'm taking full advantage of it, bringing the outdoors in. Grace hasn't left the house in nearly a month, so I'm hoping this will suffice.
Pops is certainly enjoying himself. I stand by the window, watching my father tend to the little herb garden he started on the porch of his guest home. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand, then sinks his fingers into the dirt, aerating it.
My phone buzzes in my hand. It's a Pennsylvania area code, but the number isn't one I recognize. Regardless, I swipe my thumb across the screen, holding it to my ear. "This is Payton."
"Hi, Payton," a female voice greets. "I'm Doctor Hillary Avalon, your wife's therapist."
Transferring Grace's doctors from Philadelphia to New Orleans was a simple task made arduous by the fact that Pops needed the same transition. For weeks, I've been submitting applications, vetting physicians, and requesting records. Given it's the offseason, I have more free time than I'm used to, and I'm happy to fill it by doing things for my loved ones. I've cancelled all my post-Super Bowl appearances. If someone wants to interview me, they either have to fly here, or settle for a Zoom meeting.
"Uh... Yeah, hi," I stammer, wiping the moisture from my chest. "Grace is downstairs. Would you like me to get her?"
"No, I called to speak with you," Hillary states. "Grace updated her patient card months ago, and listed you as her emergency contact."
I cross the room, standing by the threshold to listen. A dark melody floats up the stairs, blooming from the piano in the music room. Grace is still playing—it's all she ever does. "Is this an emergency?" I ask.
"No, no," Hillary assures me. "I wanted to speak with you regarding Grace. I'm concerned about her."
No, shit.
Grace doesn't eat, she doesn't sleep, she hardly moves. She just sits on the bench, her fingers flying over the keys. Sometimes, she falls asleep at the piano. In the beginning, I tried carrying her to bed, but any slight movement would wake her, and she'd demand to be put down. Now, I sleep on the settee beside the traitorous instrument, fading in and out as Grace performs for the ghosts in her mind.
I'm able to discern her mood by the melodies she chooses. They're all improvised, poured straight from her soul. She doesn't follow sheet music, and she never records the songs. I urged Grace to play piano to express herself, yet the instrument has become my new enemy. It's a succubus—stealing Grace's time, her concentration, her energy.
"In our most recent teleconferences, she's been showing signs that her post-partum depression is worsening," Hillary continues, seeing as I haven't spoken for ten whole seconds. "After a miscarriage or live birth, women experience a severe hormone drop. It's difficult for mentally stable patients to climb out of that hole, but for someone like Grace... She needs extra help."
"She's seeing a psychiatrist here," I tell her, turning my head to look at the open door to the ensuite. The shower is still leaking, but that's not what garnered my attention. "He's prescribing her something for mood, as well as sleep."
"Yes," she acknowledges. "I'm aware of what he's prescribing, and the medication should be working by now, but her symptoms aren't improving."
I enter the ensuite as she speaks, searching the cabinets for Grace's cosmetic bag.
"I'm making this call because I'd like to address Grace's depression before it becomes psychosis."
I reach behind a water pipe, fumbling for the metal clasp on the bag. "Psychosis?"
"In rare cases, post-partum depression can lead to post-partum psychosis," Hillary explains.
I dump the cosmetics onto the floor, finding the prescription bottles at the bottom, below the birth control. I pour the mood stabilizer into my palm, counting the pills. I roll a tablet over with my thumb, murmuring, "She's not taking the medication."
"I see," Hillary says, pausing. I hear a rustle of papers on her end of the line. "I'm going to email you a list of inpatient facilities. I'm on the board of directors at quite a few of them."
"Inpatient?" I ask, returning the pills to the bottle. "Like a mental hospital?"
After a psychotic break, Pops went to the state-run hospital in Philadelphia. The facility was ill-funded, the staff were overworked, and the doctors didn't pay his concerns any mind. He recovered his sanity and was discharged, but he wasn't treated well.
"They're behavioral health facilities, yes," Hillary replies. "If the situation was dire enough, you have the authority—as Grace's husband—to place her in inpatient care under an involuntary hold."
I wouldn't dream of sending Grace somewhere like that—to be strapped down, medicated without her consent, and left alone. She'd never forgive me, and I'd never forgive myself.
"I don't want to do that. Grace isn't..." I trail off, tugging at the roots of my hair. It's nearly dry. "My father has schizophrenia. I've seen what psychosis look like. Grace doesn't behave like him. She's just..."
Lost, damaged, hurt.
"I care about Grace. I'm only suggesting this because I'd like to see her get better," she says, her tone softer. "I just want you to have options, but I sincerely hope you don't need them."
I release a deep breath, returning Grace's bag to her poor hiding place. "Okay."
"One last thing. I spoke with Grace's new psychiatrist," Hillary sighs. "She's not interacting with him in their sessions."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"His exact words were, 'She just sits there, staring at the floor,'" she explains, ending the call with, "Check your email, Payton."
I toss my phone on the counter, rubbing at the tension in the nape of my neck. "Jesus Christ."
There's nothing left to do but speak to my wife, although that's becoming more and more difficult as the days pass. Ignoring the anxiety twisting my gut, I leave the master, jog down the stairs, and round the corner into the music room.
Grace is exactly where I expected her to be—seated at the bench with her back to me, her spine ramrod straight, her reflection pale in the mirror hanging above the instrument. It appears as if the black baby grand piano has gotten larger, yet it's Grace that is shrinking. The keys are draining her, and she's letting them.
The purple shadows beneath her eyes are permanent fixtures. Her lips are white and chapped. Her hair is tangled because she was too distracted to brush it after her shower. But at least she had the energy to bathe. I doubt the same can be said for eating.
I cross the room, taking a seat on the edge of the bench. I straddle it, facing her, so that my presence is unavoidable. "Have you had lunch yet?"
She lifts her finger from the ivory, hesitating, then continues the morbid tune.
"Breakfast?" I prod.
I've been at my personal trainer's gym most of the day. It's the offseason, but I have to keep in shape, otherwise I'll spend the first week of camp spewing my guts into a trashcan. Besides, I need the guidance to ensure I'm not exacerbating my injury. The latest x-ray showed no sign of inflammation, but I'm not taking any chances. The Saints' Lead Physician will clear me soon, and then I can incorporate my shoulder into the exercises.
Grace doesn't respond, but it's not because she can't hear me. She's choosing to ignore the question because she knows I won't like her answer. I try another tactic, hoping to garner her attention.
"Why aren't you taking the medicine?" I ask, softening my tone. "It's there to help you."
She drops her palms onto the board, producing an off-key boom. She still won't give me more than her profile, but she does sign, I don't like the psychiatrist.
"He's the only one in the area that understands ASL," I remind her.
He looks at me... She trails off, and the hairs on my arms stand on end. He looks at me like he's thinking something sexual.
Apart from grinding my molars, I maintain calm. As soon as I'm done speaking with Grace, I'll file a complaint to the Department of Health. "You should've told me sooner."
She licks her lips, shrugging.
"We'll find another, but I'll have to be there to translate."
We should get a divorce, she tells me.
I raise a challenging brow, answering with a simple, "No."
Her words have zero affect. Just like when Grace used to say she hated me, it's a defense mechanism. She makes a half-assed attempt to hurt me, but she always misses her mark. This is also the longest conversation we've had in days, so I'm relieved to be communicating with her, even if her suggestions are ludicrous.
I'm defective, she signs.
"Stop calling yourself that," I hiss.
She snaps her head to me, eyes blazing. Her cheeks are pinkening with an influx of emotion, and the color is returning to her lips. She flails her hands, signing aggressively.
What would you call a singer who can't sing, a human who doesn't feel real, and a woman that can't carry a child?
I hear her, but I'm also in awe. For the first time in weeks, I'm getting a reaction from Grace. She's showing signs of normal human behavior. She's bitter about the voice she lost, terrified of her mental illness, and grieving the death of our child. Even her sadness is a beautiful thing. It's a piece of her I recognize.
"I'd call her my wife," I state.
Why? she asks, tears brimming in her red eyes. After everything we've been through—after everything I've put you through—why do you want me?
"Despite your best efforts, you've never given me a reason not to love you," I insist, using my thumb to follow the wet path on her flushed cheek.
You have two mentally ill people living under your roof. You're stuck with your father, but you don't have to be stuck with me, she signs, her nostrils flaring. Find a stable woman who can give you children and love you properly. I'd understand if you want out of this marriage.
I wrap my fingers around one of her bony wrists, stopping her rant. "You love me how I want to be loved."
Grace parts her lips, taking a deep, rattling breath. Her gaze dips to my mouth, as if she's uncertain the words were my own. This... this is the woman I love. I loved her during our childhood—when she glared at me over the top of a melted cone of coffee ice cream, when she let a man die to avenge her father, when she proposed to me in a seedy alley. I loved her through the height of her career—when she wore leather bodysuits, layers of eyeliner, and shredded her lungs night after night, serenading the masses.
And I love her now—draped in a massive Saints hoodie, unwashed leggings, and wool socks. She's exhausted, depressed, and struggling to discover who she is without an audible voice, or a stable womb. But Grace has always been my constant, and I will be hers until the day I die.
"Sane or not, child or not—it doesn't matter," I insist, placing my palm on the nape of her neck to keep her attention. Her eyes find mine, and I can see my statement sinking in, reassuring her. "I need you. Not someone to fill the crater-sized hole your absence would create."
She blindsides me with a kiss, snaking her arms around my shoulders. I raise my brows in surprise, but quickly shift gears. Grace licks my lips, demanding entry, and I let her explore, groaning into her mouth. My blood ignites, warming my bare flesh. My skull vibrates with the force of my desire, and all logical thought leaves my brain.
Grace and I were having a serious discussion, and she's on the verge of emotional collapse. This isn't the proper time to get reacquainted, but I can't stop it. We haven't been intimate since the miscarriage. My need for her is potent, driving my actions. Besides, Doctor Richter gave the okay, and unlike the rest of her medications, Grace is taking her birth control religiously.
She sinks her spindly fingers into the unruly hair at the base of my scalp, tugging gently. I bury my hands beneath the sweatshirt of mine she's chosen to wear, fascinated by the silken quality of skin. Goosebumps erupt on my chest, and my jaw tingles with hunger. She tastes like mint and coffee. I nip at her lips, yanking her across the seat so her hip rests against my groin.
I'm still straddling the wooden bench. My erection creates a tent in my joggers, obvious and unavoidable. Grace grips me through the fabric, applying continuous pressure. I jolt from the contact, canting my hips toward her. She sighs into my skin, trailing spastic kisses across my jaw, down my throat, and onto my pectorals. I tilt my face to the ceiling, rejoicing in the rare moment I've been given.
Using one foot, I scoot the bench away from the piano. I stand, and Grace follows suit, tearing my elastic waistband down. My cock springs free, fighting gravity with a vengeance. Grace seizes my shaft, jacking me off nice and slow, twisting her wrist when she arrives at the tip. My mouth waters as I rock into her, desperate and aroused to the point of agony. I move to kiss her again, but she holds up her palm, signing with one hand. The translation is more difficult, but I understand.
I know you love me, she begins, her eyes darkening beneath hooded lids. But I want you to fuck me like you hate me.
I've always given Grace anything she has truly wanted, and with my throbbing dick in her hand, this occasion is no different. I don't know why Grace is asking for hate. Perhaps she finds love too overwhelming right now. It's a delicate emotion, created between soft sheets, shared smiles, and lazy mornings. But people don't always want their sweet to be obvious. Hate is bred in shadowy corners. It rides the line between anger and lust, between passion and volatility.
I bend, lift Grace by her thighs, and set her on the closed piano lid. I bracket her jaw in one hand, punishing her with a brutal kiss. Grace's shoulders shake with what I assume is a moan, and pearls of precum drip from my cock. I yank her leggings and socks off as she tears the hoodie over her head. She lies back on the lid, spreading herself open for me.
At the sight of her bare flesh, I hesitate. The skin beneath her biceps and on the insides of her thighs is marred with tiny, purple bruises. Her wrists are red and chaffed. She's been pinching, scratching, and sometimes biting.
The weight she gained during her pregnancy has been shed, and then some. Her collarbones stick out unnaturally. Her belly is concave, and I can count her ribs. Her hipbones are like twin hilts of a blade, jutting from her body. I love Grace at all times, and her beauty never ceases to amaze me, yet I wish with every fiber of my being that she'd stop doing this to herself.
I do hesitate, but not long enough for her to notice.
"You want me to hate you, is that it?" I rasp, rubbing the head of my cock between her wet sex. She responds by grinding into the touch. "Love and hate are opposites, baby, as well as companions. Just like us."
On the football field, I become many different versions of myself in order to get the job done—to incentivize my teammates. Some players require gentle guidance, sandwiched with praise. Others need to see the disappointment on my face—they crave brutal criticism. It's all an act, but when I'm with Grace, it's real. I don new masks as if they're truly my own skin. For her, I can evolve with a snap of my fingers, becoming who she needs me to be in the moment.
I lean over her, my massive frame hovering above her withering one, and place my hand on her throat. I set my thumb on the tattooed replica of my print behind her ear, using the ink to guide my placement. I fist the base of my cock, lining it up with her channel.
"The thing people tend to forget, killer," I growl, slipping inside her just an inch. Beads of sweat gather along my spine, but I fight off the sensation. "Is that you can never, ever hate someone without also loving them."
I spear into her, tightening my hold on her throat. Grace arches off the piano, her mouth hanging open in a perfect 'O.' She's tighter than before, like a boa constrictor around my shaft. I groan, barely containing a yelp of triumph. The windows are open, but our neighbors are far off, and the music room doesn't have a view of the backyard. As long as I'm relatively quiet, I won't interrupt Pops' peaceful gardening.
Grace clasps my wrist, wrapping ten fingers around it, maintaining my grip on her neck. I've given her hand necklaces many times, so I know exactly how much pressure to apply. I push on her carotid arteries, rather than her windpipe. It cuts off the circulation to her brain, but doesn't prevent her from taking a breath.
I set a savage rhythm with my hips—pulling out of her sopping cunt at a slow, torturous pace, then ramming back into her, my thighs slapping against her ass. Her body threatens to slide across the piano's glossy surface, but I keep her pinned with a hand on her hip.
Harder, Grace mouths, pulling me forward so my weight rests on her neck. I add a bit more pressure, watching the heat rise in her cheeks. Her eyes are wide and watery, yet she stares at me with complete adoration.
I never removed my joggers. The waistband rides low on my hips, exposing my cock and the rounded top of my backside. There's something satisfying about having Grace bared completely beneath me, while I remain partially clothed. It's demeaning to her, yet it demonstrates the power she wields over me—that I was too impatient, too aroused, to bother removing my pants.
Harder, she mouths again, digging her nails into my wrist.
A shiver assaults my spine. My balls draw up. My brain is encased in warm wool, but an alarm begins to go off. I've already tightened my hold on Grace's throat, and her lips are beginning to turn blue. If I do as she says—if I squeeze harder—I'll leave marks. I'll damage her trachea. I'll hurt her.
And that's when I realize...
Grace is using me for pain, but not like before. This pain will leave evidence—evidence I will have to stare at, fret over, feel guilty about. This isn't a handprint on her ass, or a bite mark on her collarbone. This violence will result in bruises on her flesh, in the shape of my fingers.
"Fuck!" I roar.
I yank away from her, sliding out of her channel. I step back from the piano, hitting the wall, horrified and utterly heartbroken that she'd ask this of me. I tuck my semi-hard erection into my pants, then rake my fingers through my hair, my chest heaving with emotion. Grace sits up, her expression riddled with shame. She pulls the sweatshirt over her head, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand.
"You're using me to hurt yourself," I rasp, fighting tears. "Do you know how unfair that is?"
Grace rolls her lips between her teeth, staring at the floor. She knew what she had planned from the very beginning. She knew it was wrong, yet she attempted to seduce me into it anyway.
"This is about trust," I remind her in a harsh tone, gesturing between us. "And I can no longer trust you to know your own boundaries. I can't trust you to tell me when to stop."
Grace wipes at a loose tear, pinning her legs shut. She wraps her arms around her abdomen, becoming smaller and smaller. She won't meet my gaze. Maybe she's afraid to see the betrayal evident in my expression.
"Say something," I command.
Grace finally looks up at me, her features hardening into a glare. She lifts her hands, signing, What would you like to hear?
I scoff, shaking my head in disbelief. "Aren't you sorry?"
Not sorry enough, she replies.
I scrub my palms along the scruff on my cheeks, distressed. I've been scrambling for bits and pieces of my wife, yet I'm still losing her. I don't know how to make it stop. I don't know how to help her if she refuses to help herself. My mind jumps to a familiar comfort—something that will soothe me, nourish her, and maintain our fragile bond.
"Will you let me feed you?" I plead.
Grace is silent for a few moments, and I can see the contemplation taking place in her mind. She tilts her head, her eyes almost reptilian. She's far removed from this world, trapped inside her snow globe. But she doesn't seem to mind the glass wall anymore. It used to make her anxious, but Grace has twisted it around, using her disassociation as protection.
I want to play the piano, she finally signs, sliding off the lid. She takes a seat at the bench, casting me a withering glare. Alone.
Her rejection is a sword straight through my gut. I nod once, jogging upstairs in search of my phone. There's an email from Hillary Avalon, MD. I open it, reviewing the inpatient facilities.