Expecting (Gwen and Tristan)

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

The rattle of wrappers burned Gwen’s ears as she sat on the lid of the toilet, waiting. Her insides bubbled with anticipation, with dread, and with excitement. She wanted to vomit, to scream, to cheer. With each second that dragged past her, she wanted to pull out her hair or bite her thumb with anxiousness. Ten minutes had never before in her life seemed like an eternity. But what was ten minutes compared to six years? A blink. A very slow blink.

She looked down at the stick in her lap and squealed, an emotion that was more than bliss erupted from her every pore as she called out Torben’s name in an inexplicable elation, in some other-worldly celebration.

He tore into the small restroom, his eyes roaming, searching for some closure to his own impatience.

Gwen smiled. “Torben,” she said, her voice disembodied, in a congratulatory voice, a triumphant tone that sounded foreign to her. “Look!”

Torben’s eyes drifted down with nervous reluctance. He squinted for a moment before the little pink plus registered with him. His face broke into a smile that Gwen had never seen on him before. It was his best accessory, his best feature. But Gwen didn’t get to gaze upon for long, for Torben scooped her into a deep, loving kiss. They would celebrate tonight—not with wine or their left over advocate, but with love and family and with loud professions of excitement. But now, her heart leapt with an urge, a desire to tell Tristan.

Tristan was their resilient friend, their quiet, grown child that had been an accidental blessing in their lives. He had cremated their miscarried baby, stood by them and helped them grieve, watched with let go with respectful silence. He cheered Gwen up when she was sick in bed and he brought Torben out of his darkened little shell of a paint studio and into the real world. They owed the world to him and he didn’t even know.

She would tell him first. She biked to his apartment with more gusto than the chains and wheels could handle, honking her horn with glee the whole way. Stick in hand, she knocked on his door. “Tristan!” she called from behind the wood, unable to hold back her newly permanent smile. “Tristan, please be home!”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

“Yes, sir, we’ve already contacted the police. They’re doing a complete sweep of the funeral home as we speak. Again, I can’t tell you how sorry I am – how sorry we all are. For your loss and for my team’s carelessness.”

Tristan hung up the phone and put his head in his hands. It had been a long week, but in an hour, he would go down to the hospital to visit Solange and tell her everything was fine. Her appendix had ruptured only a few days ago and she didn’t need to be stressed about work.

And work was stressful. Beyond stressful. Two nights ago, Tristan had sealed up Madame Lafollette’s jewelry. He’d locked it in the embalming room safe. The next morning, her wedding ring and pearl earrings were gone. He’d already interrogated each of the interns to the best of his ability, scoured the place top to bottom, and he’d spoken to Monsieur Lafollette about the situation several times. Apparently the ring was a family heirloom, valuable in both sentiment and actuality. If they didn’t find that ring, Vidal Funeral Home would have its first ever lawsuit. If that happened, Tristan didn’t know what he’d do. He didn’t know what Solange would do; what would rupture next. Her spleen, maybe, or their relationship or their business. He’d called the cops in to do a search; no one was going to say that he hadn’t tried to find that damn ring.

He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for the Lafollette family. Guilt made Tristan nauseous. He was in the business of caring for families in the worst times. And instead, somehow he had made things worse. But the safe had been locked. The embalming room, too. Everything had been locked. Somehow, he’d failed. His team had failed.

Tristan didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but the only other people with access to the safe were the interns. And, well, Solange, but she was in the hospital. If it was a robbery, it was an inside job. Tristan hoped it was just a mistake; a careless and sleep-deprived intern accidentally moving the ring and putting it somewhere else.

A pang of loneliness darted through Tristan. Of course this would happen the same week Solange was in the hospital. He’d told her a hundred times that he couldn’t keep the funeral home running without her. Talk about self-fulfilling prophecies.

Tristan climbed to his feet and stalked into the kitchen. It was early, but Tristan was seriously considering cracking open the six-pack in the refrigerator. He needed to kill his thoughts long enough to smile and be comforting when he left. An hour would give him time to get buzzed and clean himself up enough so that Solange and the doctors and the nurses couldn’t even guess he’d been drinking. He pulled the beer from the refrigerator and plunked it onto the counter.

And then there was a knock on the door.

Tristan swore under his breath. It was the cops with findings. They’d found the ring. He’d look like a drunk, calling them on a fool’s errand, beer in hand. God, he was getting paranoid. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t him at all.

“Just a second!” he called out, trying to figure out how he’d fit a six-pack in the fridge in the first place. The bottles clanged about as Tristan tried to force them between the milk and a carton of orange juice.

“Tristan, please be home!”

Gwen.

She sounded urgent, frantic. Maybe she’d biked past the funeral home and seen all the yellow tape and police cars. Maybe she was worried. But Tristan relaxed. He put the beer back on the counter – he’d figure it out in a minute – and he slammed the refrigerator shut. If anyone could put him at ease, make him smile, it was Gwen. With his luck, she’d brought Leopold along and the kid would want to play with Isolde. And Gwen would get all concerned about the beers being out, but not interrogate him and maybe even drink with him while they watched Leopold roll around on the floor with his “ami”. She’d understand, know what to do –

He opened the door of the apartment to see Gwen standing alone and beaming. Her smile was infectious and even though Tristan still felt nauseous, he smiled back and hugged her. He had to stoop to compensate for the twelve-inch height difference. When he pulled away, he noticed that Gwen was clutching a plastic stick. A thermometer? Was everything just going to hell this week? Solange’s health, the funeral home… now Gwen’s health, too?

For f*ck’s sake… Tristan thought as his stomach did a belly-flop. He shut his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck before gesturing for Gwen to walk in. He forced a smile and opened his eyes.

“Come on in. It’s good to see you,” he said. Then hesitantly, “Is everything okay?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

Hurried footsteps shuffled around on the other side of the door. She wondered, for a moment, if that was what angel wings sounded like on the other side of the pearly gates to a despairing person in purgatory. Too slow for the greeting, too far away, and yet so close that Gwen could feel anticipation itch at her brain. Fortunately for her, there was no gate keeper, no Saint Peter telling her to repent, and no obnoxious chorus of harps.

The door opened just as frantically as the footsteps suggested it would and there stood Tristan—pale, tired, almost haggard. As if he were threadbare cotton blend not yet ready for the trash bin. She smiled at him. How could she contain her excitement? And he smiled too, as if her smile was the caffeine shot he needed today. “Come on in. It’s good to see you,” He said as Gwen ducked under his arm and into the apartment. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, on her tip toes so that her head nestled just against his sternum. “Good to see you, too!”

He held her at arm’s length and looked her up and down, concern making fissures in his face where there had once been a smooth, young plain. “Is everything okay?”

“Perfect!” Gwen squealed. “Everything is absolutely perfect! Well… if you take away the heartburn and my aching feet. Other than that, perfection. Pure bliss.” She took off her shoes and tossed them to the side. “How are you?”

Her eyes fell onto the open beer bottle on the counter. She half-frowned. Something was wrong. Why else would he drink this early in the day? Worried hollowed its way into her chest and she cringed with a soft gasp. “Tristan, what happened?” She asked cautiously, tucking her test stick away into her purse. “Are you okay?”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Gwen was the CPR push that put life back into Tristan’s lungs right now. She jolted him from his torpor and into a place more familiar and comforting than his conversations with hospital administrators, nurses-on-duty, angry widowers, and indifferent police detectives. He was breathing again, smiling. And for a moment, he believed Gwen when she said everything was “Perfect.”

The moment was short-lived.

“Everything is absolutely perfect! Well… if you take away the heartburn and my aching feet. Other than that, perfection. Pure bliss.” She took off her shoes and tossed them to the side. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Tristan assured her. His voice wasn’t the most assuring sound anymore. It usually was steady and deep – a rolling baritone suited for comforting mourners and lulling Leopold to sleep and murmuring sweet nothings against Solange’s skin. Now, it was as if his throat had dried up. But the words sounded right; maybe Gwen would believe them.

But as Tristan followed Gwen into the kitchen, heard her gasp, he knew she didn’t. He cringed.

“Tristan, what happened?” Gwen asked. She sounded timid – unlike the woman who moments ago crowed that everything was ‘pure bliss’. She put her thermometer in her purse. Tristan’s eyes flicked from her to the opened beer bottle on the countertop. “Are you okay?”

“It’s been a long week,” Tristan said honestly. “I told you already… Solange is in the hospital and work is…”

Hell. Work is Hell. Tristan never thought there’d be a day he’d think that, much less think of saying it out loud to Gwen. He cleared his throat.

“It’s just been a long week. I’ve more than earned an early-morning pick-me-up,” he said. It was maybe eleven AM. It wasn’t that early. Almost lunchtime. “Enough about me. Let’s go back to ‘perfection’ and ‘pure bliss’ a minute. How is heartburn ‘perfect’?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

“I’m fine,” Tristan insisted, but his voice told Gwen he was lying. His smile didn’t kiss his eyes the way it often had before, making happy little crinkles around them like the corners of a bedsheet. His real smile was nowhere in sight and Gwen didn’t realize how much she loved it until it was faded into a whisper of a hint of happiness. She had seen him have a resigned, professional line of a mouth, a wealth of emotion pooling behind his cool eyes. She had seen him startled by the prospect of getting arrested when they first met. But this was new. This was an exhausted face that looked as if it had been through the wringer too many times. He was much too young to feel that way.

“It’s been a long week. I told you already… Solange is in the hospital and work is…” Tristan said and Gwen held her breath, waiting for the next word the way an overly invested child waiting for the closure of a scary story. “It’s just been a long week. I’ve more than earned an early-morning pick-me-up.”

Gwen smiled and shrugged. She supposed that was true. Whatever was bothering him would find her eventually. It always did and she always did her best to help him and chase his problem away. Tristan’s face morphed once more into a curious, piqued engagement that soothed Gwen to a point. “Enough about me. Let’s go back to ‘perfection’ and ‘pure bliss’ a minute. How is heartburn ‘perfect’?”

“And aching feet. You can’t forget those!” Gwen said with a chuckle. “They’re necessary evils. The war before the win, if you will,” Gwen cheered, not sure if that was a real adage or not. She procured the testing stick from her purse. “Look at this. Look, but don’t touch,” Gwen said, pushing the image of Tristan clutching her piss-stained stick from her mind. “Do you know what this is?”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Gwen resumed her triumphant smile. Tristan was glad for the distraction, but a secret and callous part of him stole a look at the clock above his stove. Gwen was his best friend; he’d always try to make time for her. But seconds could tick away into minutes and minutes into hours quickly in Gwen’s company. And the image of Solange propped up in a starch-white hospital bed, alone, tugged at the back of Tristan’s mind. He had to stay in her good graces, if he wanted her to not hate him when she was released from the hospital and when she returned to the wreck that was their workplace. Being late – for whatever reason – would do nothing to win Solange over.

Tristan’s nerves were doing a frantic jitterbug under his skin as Gwen rambled on in her nonsensical way. “War before the win”. “Necessary evils.” As if Tristan – as if anyone – could tell what she was talking about.

Irritability was not a natural state of mind for Tristan. He hated every second of it. He looked at Gwen apologetically as she procured her thermometer-looking thing from her purse once more. Having a sh*t day – having a sh*t week – was no excuse to be a sh*t friend.

“Look at this,” said Gwen, brandishing the plastic thing at Tristan. “Look, but don’t touch. Do you know what this is?”

“Sure,” said Tristan. “It’s a thermometer.”

But upon closer inspection, Tristan realized that he wasn’t looking at a temperature reading. He squinted to make out two colored lines on the digital face of the “thermometer” and something clicked in his head. This wasn’t a thermometer at all. It was a pregnancy test. His brows knitted for a moment as the cogs in his head tried to grind into place. Gwen was carting around a pregnancy test and getting psyched about aching feet and heartburn.

Tristan had never read a pregnancy test before. Thankfully, he never had to. But just because he didn’t have the technical skill to understand what some little, colored lines meant, didn’t mean he couldn’t put two and two together. A dazed sort of smile dominated his waxy features – the first real, genuine smile to touch his face in days – and Tristan ran a hand through his hair.

What was that Beatles’ song? Life goes on, ob la di, ob la dah. Even when Tristan’s days were consumed by death, sickness, and concern, there was life being lived – life being created – all around him. And Gwen, who had struggled with her desire to be a mother for as long as – longer than – Tristan had known her, was pregnant. It was about time for some good news. And if he were the sort to believe in omens, Tristan would have taken this as a good one.

But he wasn’t that sort of guy. He never had been. Tristan didn’t believe in omens or miracles or signs from the divine. What he believed in were wake up calls and well-timed coincidences. So instead of giving it too much thought, he wrapped Gwen up in a hug – a careful, one-armed thing, to avoid popping the baby or some sort of weird BS like that – and Tristan held her to him.

“Congratulations,” he murmured against her wild, flyaway curls. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all week. How’s Torben taking it?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

“Sure,” Tristan responded with a nonchalant confidence. “It’s a thermometer.”

Gwen laughed. No maliciously, not at his expense, but from the giddiness that blossomed and bloomed inside of her. The new life forming inside her had brought her—though a paragon of the walking dead not five weeks ago—a new appreciation and dedication to loving the life she was living.

Tristan ran a hand through his hair and Gwen bit her lip nervously. For her, the two lines spelled out ‘pregnant’ to her with two fat, pink exclamation points at the end. But for Tristan, it seemed more difficult to decipher. Gwen smiled, waiting patiently for the circuit to click.

Then, carefully, Tristan pulled her into a hug far more gentle than the rib-crushing bear hugs he had once lavished her with. “Congratulations,” Tristan said softly as if his low, booming voice could wake her growing baby. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all week. How’s Torben taking it?”

Gwen’s smile widened as she turned to face him. “Fantastic. He’s ecstatic, practically convivial. He couldn’t find the right words so he just sort of rambled in German and we tangoed around the living room. Honestly, I haven’t seen him this happy since Leopold told him he wasn’t scary anymore.” She pulled away, sitting on the arm of the chair beside them. “Speaking of Leopold, we haven’t told him yet. We figured we’d wait a little longer, so don’t say anything about it to him. We don’t know how he’ll take it. Actually,” Gwendoline continued in one long breath, “you’re the only one we’ve told yet. Keep it hush-hush.” Gwen put her whole weight on the armrest now, her feet hurting from standing. “We have our first obstetrician appointment next week, you know.”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

The picture of a “convivial” Torben was one Tristan could scarcely grasp at. Torben wasn’t exactly the most emotive person. Torben spoke in a monotone that flicked only slightly up or down to indicate mood. You had to be an expert to pick up on it; Tristan was far from an expert. Maybe that was why he couldn’t imagine Torben tangoing in the living room and rambling in excited German over much of anything.

But babies changed things. Maybe one would even change the immovable Torben into a “convivial” and tangoing bundle of emotions.

The thought brought an amused, half-laugh to the back of Tristan’s throat. It was the closest he’d come to laughing in days.

Gwen pulled away from the hug and sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. Tristan plucked up his opened beer and joined her at the table. Now, he could at least use the excuse of ‘I’m celebrating’ to take a drink, calm his nerves. He’d gladly toast to Gwen and Torben’s successful pregnancy.

“Speaking of Leopold,” said Gwen. Tristan hadn’t noticed the change of subject to Leopold to begin with. Last he’d heard, Torben was the topic at hand. But he nodded blithely, as if he knew where Gwen was going with this train of thought. Truthfully, her thought-trains jumped track so often that Tristan never actually knew where they were going. “We haven’t told him yet. We figured we’d wait a little longer, so don’t say anything about it to him. We don’t know how he’ll take it. Actually,” Gwendoline continued in one long breath, “you’re the only one we’ve told yet. Keep it hush-hush. We have our first obstetrician appointment next week, you know.”

“My lips are sealed,” Tristan promised.

Although he couldn’t help but think he might accidentally blab to Solange at the hospital today. Not out of any natural inclination towards gossip, but just so he could say something was going right in the outside world this week. The way he saw it, though, telling Solange hardly counted as blabbing, since she was his girlfriend. They didn’t keep secrets from each other. Well, excluding the secret he was keeping about their client’s missing wedding ring and the police search being conducted right now inside the funeral home.

“Thank you,” said Tristan, reaching across the table to take Gwen’s hand. “For telling me. Are they going to do pictures at the doctor’s? Ultrasounds?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

“My lips are sealed,” Tristan said and Gwen knew he was right. Tristan was like a safe full of secrets handed to him, entrusted to him. In all honesty, Gwen was surprised he hadn’t cracked yet from all the overflowing secrets he held so tightly to.

“Thank you,” Tristan said, taking the sentiment out of her mouth, reaching across the table to hold her hand. She didn’t know what he was thanking her for, really. She had done nothing. She looked at him blankly for a moment as if to ask what he meant. “For telling me,” he clarified and Gwen nodded in acknowledgement. “Are they going to do pictures at the doctor’s? Ultrasounds?”

“Yes,” Gwen said quickly. “But they won’t know the gender until, like, way later. I can still show you pictures when I get them, though, if you’d like…”

Inside her pocket, her phone rang and she looked down with a smile as she caught a glimpse of Torben’s name. “Hang on. It’s my convivial life partner.” She pressed the green ‘talk’ button and put the phone to her ear.

“Hey, Tor-bear! I just told Tristan and—“ but Torben cut her off.

“Gwen, I was just driving past the funeral home. There’s tape on the door.” Torben said in a tone too serious to belong to man about to become a father.

“So? It’s tape, Torben, it comes off…?”

“Yellow tape. Police crime scene tape.” Gwen’s face fell. “Is Tristan alright?”

“I thought, so, I don’t know.” She eyed Tristan from her peripherals. He looked fine. Tired, but fine. “Look, darling, I’ll call you back and let you know. Try not to worry. Have fun at the park with Leo.” Gwen hung up the phone and folded her hands on the table, leaning in. “That was Torben.” Her voice was stern, concerned. “He went for a drive to the park with Leopold. He said he drove by the funeral home? What’s the matter, Tristan?”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Gwen began telling Tristan about the plans for an ultrasound, but her ringing phone cut conversation short. She pulled it out and a smile crossed her lips.

“Hang on. It’s my convivial life partner,” said Gwen. Tristan made a gesture of assent – as if to say “proceed” – and he took interest in his beer again. It was warm now and a little gross; he was calmed down anyways. Well, he was calmer. Happy for Gwen; still agitated about the funeral home in some dim part of his brain, still concerned about Solange’s recovery and reaction if he told her everything that was happening today. But calmer. It was something.

He wondered if beer would keep in the refrigerator once it had been opened, or if it would go flat like soda did.

Tristan caught Gwen’s eye. She was studying him carefully, scrutinizing. He gave the same look to some of his clients – the living ones – when they were overly-composed. His stomach squeezed up. Being looked at like that was the antithesis of “comforting”.

“That was Torben,” Gwen said seriously. “He went for a drive to the park with Leopold. He said he drove by the funeral home? What’s the matter, Tristan?”

“Nothing,” he said, standing up. He took his beer with him into the kitchen and took a swig as he walked. It was actually disgustingly warm. How long had he and Gwen been sitting here? He moved to the sink and poured it out. He watched the amber liquid swirl down the drain. The motion was calming, but then the beer was gone and Tristan was staring into an empty sink. Restlessness took over and her moved to the garbage and chucked the empty bottle into it. “I’m fine Gwen.”

He knew exactly what Torben had seen. The single cop car, parked out in front next to Tristan’s hearse, blue and red lights flashing, illuminating the walkway. The secure, yellow-tape perimeter. It was humiliating. Tristan leaned against the counter and took a deep breath. It was all such a big show – like a f*cking circus – and from the looks of it, there might as well have been a murder or a robbery or something.

Well, there might have been a robbery…

“One of our clients’ wedding rings went missing two days ago,” he said. “From the embalming room safe. So the cops are just looking for it. I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

“Nothing,” Tristan said, standing, turning his back to Gwen. She should have expected he would do so much. Tristan was good at many things and avoiding confrontation was one of them. Gwen rested her head on her erected fist and waited patiently. He’d come around, open up to her.

“I’m fine, Gwen.” Tristan as he sauntered into the kitchen, beer in hand. He dumped it down the sink and waited until the angry gurgles of the drain died down to look up at her again. And there she was, patiently letting him take his time. Something was wrong (why else would the funeral home be transformed into a crime scene?), but Tristan needed to tell her in his own time.

Gwen almost considered changing subject to give him more time to prepare, but instead, Tristan spoke. “One of our clients’ wedding rings went missing two days ago from the embalming room safe.” Gwen suppressed a gasp. That was horrible news, something that happened to someone else, but never to someone you loved. News stories like that were always a detached sort of trauma to be turned off and forgotten about by the next day. But now, it was real, and Tristan’s business was in trouble.

She almost suggested putting one of her many engagement rings in the place of the missing wedding ring, but she knew it would be foolish. The ring could be replaced, but not the meaning of it. It would have been a stupid offer, quickly refuted. She kept her mouth shut.

“ So the cops are just looking for it. I’m sure it’ll turn up.” Tristan said in feigned optimism.

“Of course it’ll show up, baby.” Gwen said comfortingly, rising to place a hand on his back. “I’m so sorry. What can I do?”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

When Gwen placed a hand between Tristan’s shoulder blades, his whole body sagged. He was surprised that he wasn’t crying – he wished he would cry, get it out of the way – but he was too tired and too disappointed in himself to do anything. He’d let a family down. His carelessness – or the carelessness of his interns, which was essentially the same thing, since he’d hired them – had caused pain in a time when he was supposed to help with the healing process. He was a failure of a funeral director. His usual attitude of “everyone makes mistakes” and “there is a solution for everything” was gone. Sapped from him entirely. He looked over at Gwen and shook his head.

“Nothing,” he told her. His voice was soft and resolved. Dull. Dead. “I’m the one who’s going to have to take responsibility for this. Even if one of the interns lost it, it’s my business. It’s my job to provide quality care… And I f*cked up. I just don’t know how to fix this.”

He sighed and the clock in the living room made a sound; a half hour had gone by. Tristan cringed.

“I’m supposed to go to the hospital in half an hour,” he told Gwen. “To see Solange. I promised I’d come around lunch time. I haven’t told her. That’s really bad. Not telling my business partner I let things go to hell. Not telling my girlfriend. She’s gonna kill me when she finds out.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

Some piece of life drained from Tristan’s face, some ultimate motivation filtered down into his toes. Gwen’s frown deepened at the sight. Never before had she seen Tristan so sad and something about this particular sadness, some footnote under his frown, made this situation seem even more tragic. Tristan’s way of life was on the line, his credibility, his name, his world. And here Gwen was, gushing about a baby that would still be there tomorrow. She could have waited until his crisis was over, leveled out, to tell him her baby news.

“Nothing,” Tristan said in a voice so devoid of life, there was no human left in it and Gwen imagined this was how one of his decedents would have talked had they the ability. “I’m the one who’s going to have to take responsibility for this. Even if one of the interns lost it, it’s my business. It’s my job to provide quality care… And I f*cked up. I just don’t know how to fix this.”

Gwen rested her head carefully on his chest, hearing his heartbeat, relieved that he was still alive and breathing, though his eyes said otherwise. She hugged him tightly, comfortingly.

“I’m supposed to go to the hospital in half an hour. To see Solange. I promised I’d come around lunch time. I haven’t told her. That’s really bad. Not telling my business partner I let things go to hell. Not telling my girlfriend. She’s gonna kill me when she finds out.”

“Not if you’re honest with her. She cares about you. And the business. Everything will be fine. Everything will be just fine.” She let go of him. “Go, Tristan. Go see Solange. We’ll talk later.”