I know the road ahead isn't going to be an easy one for us. Both of us are too set in our ways to change overnight. I know especially for Russell the time in the near future might become a huge struggle, but as I promised, I'll be by his side to help him work through it. It's going to take effort on both our parts to make things better.

Right now, though, the reality of it is, we're together again, after a few months of soul searching and valiantly struggling to keep our heads about water, so to speak. I can hardly believe he's here, holding me, kissing me, caring for me as he always has, because the last little while for us has been a test of our love.

Suddenly, now, things are as they were right when we first met, when I wasn't too sure, shy and hesitant. I'm hoping soon they will get back to normal, that we can go back to the level of emotional trust and intimacy that we shared before. I don't want to rush it, though; the bond that we've forged out of the ashes that once was is still brand new and tentative. I hate that but remind myself that this is a fresh start, a new beginning for the two of us, and we need to take things a step, a day at a time.

So I look into his eyes, my heart nearly bursting with love for him. "Are you hungry?" 

He nods, a slightly quizzical expression coming over him, before he tucks it away at my sudden change in attitude. He takes my hand in his as we go into the kitchen in search of something to eat for supper, and I let him, but I still feel like I did when our relationship was young, unsure of where things will lead. We're both trying oh so hard. As I rummage in the refrigerator, he silently begins helping me, and then he says quietly, "I really do like your hair that way, Liss."

"You do?" I turn to smile at him as I hand him a package of steaks, begin taking vegetables out of the crisper for a salad. "I know it's different...way short...but I can grow it back if you..."

Coming to me, he sets everything aside and kisses my temple, then takes my mouth with his again gently. "Don't change it on my account." 

"I didn't want you to change for me, either, Russ. I want you to know that." 

He looks at me, turns away, begins busying himself with turning on the stove. "I wasn't putting any hidden messages into anything, Lissy." 

I feel embarrassed that this has now become the primary issue in our lives. So I just say, "I'm sorry," and then he's there, wrapping his arms around me from behind, holding me captive. "No, I am." Now I feel ashamed that I'm bringing more into the here and now than needs be, that I'm still feeling defensive and prickly and not my old self anymore. Hot tears sting my eyes again as I whisper, "Can we just start over?"

In my ear, he murmurs, "We can start over, sweetheart. As many times as you want...as many times as it takes." His hold on me tightens and I sense in him the same residual tension and slight fear of the unknown that I feel. Then he kisses my neck, lets me go, moves away to work on his part of the meal as I do mine. He asks about my family, about my nephew and niece that he absolutely adores, and soon we're back talking about normal, safe things. Family and friends, simple things like how long we should stay here and what we're going to do when we get back to Australia. I'm eager to get back to Sugar and meet her new daughter for the first time, and he tells me all about them and what I can expect to find when I get back home. The meal is pleasant and uncomplicated and I'm grateful for that, slowly starting to find my footing once more and feel secure around him as I once so easily did.

After we eat and clean up, we go into the den to just relax and watch an old movie, both of us stretched out on the sofa, with me drawn back against him, my head against his shoulder and him still holding onto me, our fingers linked together, simply content to be close to each other. There's still the sense that a lot of things are unspoken between us, but we've only just attempted this reconciliation, and I know that it'll take time.

When the movie ends, I feel the sort of nervous tension beginning between us again, a sort of hushed expectancy. I know he wants to go to bed. I know logically, as a couple, especially one who's just reunited, that he's also expecting us to share the bed. And I know that he intends to make love to me. My body yearns for this, missing him badly after all the time we were apart, but I still feel this sense of shy hesitancy that doesn't make sense. He's my husband, but changed, different now, and I have to get to know him, build this up all over again.

He makes the first move, gently kisses the curve of my ear. "Tired?"

I should just say yes and leave it at that. But I do want him, even after all of this, and I'm hoping I'll snap out of it and things will just start to work as they were. So I shoot back, "Are you?" and he gets that playful grin of his that melts my heart, even as I feel it begin to pound harder with concern over what lies directly ahead.

"Yeah, love, let's go and get some sleep, shall we?"

"Liar." I look knowingly at him and he laughs. I'm praying that once we're there, and he begins, I'll feel all of the doubt slide away and we'll renew our passion for one another.  As he takes my hand, he comments, "Your fingers are cold." Then he adds, "I'll warm them up," and I feel the slow spreading of heat through me despite myself.

Once we're in our bedroom, he starts out slow. Just takes me in his arms and kisses me, tenderly, sweetly, and I can feel myself responding as always, the eagerness starting to build. I do love him, so very much. There's nothing I want more than this, but still something holds me back. When he deepens his kiss, sliding his hands down to cup my bottom and hold me against him, I feel his arousal pushing against me, and I tense, frozen into place. I know he senses this immediately because he stops and gazes at me with concern. "Lissy?"

"I'm sorry." Tears blur my vision as I try to look at him, see his eyes widen even more as he sees them. I cling to him and try to explain, "It's not you...not that I don't want this...but...it's...awkward."

I know that was the wrong choice of words as soon as they leave my mouth. He looks hurt and a bit angry and incredulous all at once. "It's...AWKWARD? My making love to you is fucking awkward?" He lets go of me, runs his hand through his hair, looks at me, looks away.

"Russ..." Oh, god, how can I ever reclaim this? We're going farther apart again, starting to be cast adrift, and I can't let that happen. I whisper, "It's just been so long...and I...I'm frightened."

"My being here, wanting you, frightens you???" I hate the look he's got on his face. He actually looks like I've physically struck him. I wonder if he's fighting the urge to strike ME, I've definitely wounded him now.

"No..." It's so hard to explain, though. His voice grows soft. "I would never hurt you, Liss. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes...it's not that...but I..." 

"FUCK!" In frustration, he turns away, his own body equally stiff and tense now. I sink down on the edge of the bed and start crying. 

"Do you want me to leave?" His tone is muffled because he's still turned away from me, and I sense he's dealing with his own conflict right now, besides trying to understand mine.

"No!" I'm adamant about that. If he left me, even just left the room, I think it'd damn near kill me at this point. I'm torn between wanting to curl into a protective ball and going over to touch him, to try to put my arms around him and salvage any semblance of passion we might have left tonight. But he's looking so upset that there's probably no chance of it anyhow. I turn from him and close in on myself as a measure of defense, so he can't see how confused and aching I truly am.

Without warning, he's upon me, jerking me up and then lifting me fully onto the bed, pinning me down with his big, powerful body. He doesn't rest his full weight on me, intent on not crushing me beneath him, but he's not giving an extra inch to even wiggle or allow me an attempt to pull away.

"No. You're not doing this. I won't let you." His voice is a rough growl, his hands capturing mine and pinning them above my head against the pillows. I look into his eyes and I'm shocked by the feral gleam I see in them. "I'm not letting you drift away from me again, Lissy. You can't. You won't."

"Please let me go, Russ. Please." I'm still crying, numb from everything that's gone on between us and unable to want to enjoy anything that might follow. But he ignores my pleas. "Liss, remember this. How good it was for both of us. You can't run and hide, I won't allow it."

I truly don't think he'll hurt me. Certainly not take me against my will. For even though my body's struggling and bucking under his, I'm fighting the need and the longing of my own heart, not him. But he's overtly aggressive now, the fear of losing me once more, even only emotionally, driving him. He yanks my knit shirt out of my jeans, begins shoving it up in a violent motion. I whimper but he won't back down as he jerks it over my head. It twists around my arms just below where his hands still cuff mine to the bed, and he leaves it there, keeping me imprisoned. He looks at my heaving breasts, barely covered with the filmy lace of my bra, and then he takes one of my nipples into his mouth, cloth and all and sucks hard at it, making me moan with both suppressed apprehension and hunger. "Do you remember that, Lissy? Do you?"

I can't answer him, nearly hyperventilating, my entire body suffused with conflicting, overwhelming sensation. Still keeping me secured, gripping my wrists in one large fist, he reaches with the other hand and wrenches open my jeans. Then he looks at me and I can't help the cry that escapes me when I see the despair flood back into his expression again. Pain and love, remorse and desire, all rolled into one. My eyes slide shut so I won't have to look at him that way; tears leaking out of the corners of them and sliding down my face to soak the pillow. 

"Lissy." His body eases off of mine just a bit, allowing me some space. He lets go of me, gently rubbing my wrists. He didn't hurt me, I'm sure he didn't even leave a mark, but I can feel his concern as he carefully untangles the shirt and draws it the rest of the way off, dropping it to the floor. My eyes are still tightly closed but I can hear it land with a soft plop on the carpet. I can't move, can't lower my arms, so weary and scared yet, so he just threads his fingers through mine. His hands are so big, completely enveloping mine, slightly rough and calloused with all the work he's done around the farm, familiar and warm, and I let out a small sigh.

"Lissy." He says it again, coaxingly, lovingly. "Sweetheart, look at me. Please." I feel his lips lightly brush my cheek. "Don't...don't shut me out, love." His voice is a husky rumble, vibrating with need. Letting go of one of my hands, he rests his palm against my cheek, stroking, then reaches up to smooth my hair back. Returning downward, he cups my chin, tracing my trembling mouth with the pad of his thumb. "Please."

I slowly open my eyes, looking deeply into his, just mere inches away. God, I have always loved his eyes. They're this fascinating fluctuation of blue and green, full of fire one moment and amazingly tender the next. Right now it's the tenderness that captures me.

"I'm sorry. The last thing I'd ever want to do is frighten you." He sighs, bends to kiss my forehead. "Or hurt you. But I have, haven't I?" 

"No...I'm all right." 

"I don't mean just now, baby." 

"We..." I raise my face just a fraction, gaining my strength back. "We're starting over, remember?"

He gives a small uncertain smile. "Do you still want this? Me? Us?" 

"Yes." It's a soft whisper, but it seems to resonate in the sudden stillness of the room as I reach with my free hand now and run the back of my fingers down the side of his face. He lets out a sort of rumbly purr and covers it with his, kissing the inside of my wrist. I let out a shiver and a quiet sound of pleasure and his smile makes another appearance, this time more confident.

"I'll take care of you, Liss. Slow and easy. Won't rush, won't force anything. That sound good to you?"

"That sounds wonderful to me." It's not awkward anymore. This is the Russ I know and love, my husband, my protector. My lover. There are still so many things that need to be worked out, but for now, this is all that matters.

True to his word, he's gentle now as he kisses me, his touch lingering, tracing my features as if to memorize them. It HAS been a long time, way too long for us, and we've returned to each other as two entirely different people than we were before. There's a lot to learn, a lot to rediscover about one another.

"I hurt you too," I suddenly blurt out, and he stops, fixes me with that intense gaze of his. 

"Shh. That's all behind us now, Liss...all we're going to give to each other now is pleasure. You'll like that, won't you, sweetheart? No more pain...no more tears...just us loving each other. I love you, Lissy. I love you so damn fucking much." His voice breaks; will both of us ever be able to climb out of our misery intact?

"I love you." Somehow the words set us free. We just watch each other for a long, heartwrenching moment. Then we're kissing, fiercely, my body writhing beneath his with eagerness now instead of the urge to escape him.

"Oh, god, Liss..." He's tugging at my jeans now, but with more care and less aggression as he strips them down and off and they hit the floor. He runs both hands back up the length of my legs; the look on his face making me squirm. I do love watching the obvious pleasure he takes from my body. "You're so goddamn beautiful it makes me ache."

"I could do something about that." He lifts his head, looks up at me, sees my smile. As good as it always was for us.  "Yeah, I believe you could," he agrees.

"What's wrong with this picture, then?" I pull at his shirt and he grins, helping me take it off him. I've missed this so badly. I know every inch of him, intimately and by heart, but I can't resist running my hands over his naked torso, relearning him and what he likes best. He's more toned and fit now, from all the hard physical labor he's been doing to keep from sliding under. I comment on this and he smiles, but then his gaze grows solemn as he looks at me. "You, on the other hand, have lost weight...you're so slender to begin with...Christ, look." His palm, laid flat on my belly, easily covers it all the way across. "We'll have to fatten you up. I'll cook for you, day and night."

I have to giggle. "You don't cook worth a damn, any more than I do, really." 

"I'll take you to Europe, then...fill you up with pastry and sweets...make you look like you won't blow away in a breeze." We both smile at each other. Then his look changes yet again and he says, hesitant and quiet once more, "Or we could...make a baby... to fit nicely in here."

My heart stops, as he watches for my reaction. We've talked about it, many times, before things started going awry. Nothing would make me happier than to have children with this man, the ultimate gift and expression of our love. Reaching for him, I run my fingers through his wavy dark hair and say softly, "Wow. Talk about new beginnings."

"Timing good for it?" I think back, my entire system out of whack since our separation. He's right, I haven't been taking care of myself as I should; and it's thrown my cycle off. "I don't think so," I tell him truthfully.

"Then we'll just have to keep at it until it takes," he says, his grin mischievous. He kisses me again, and soon we're hastily attacking the rest of our clothing, our long enforced period of abstinence making us greedy for one another. This is the way it was meant to be, the way it used to be, perfect and meaningful.

He's tender and sweet, ministering to me first before taking care of his own needs. Now there's not the frantic urgency that was driving him before; he knows it's what I want too, and he's careful and gentle, but he doesn't hold back. He knows my body as intimately as I know his, and he unerringly finds the places and the ways to bring me the most pleasure. This is how we both need it right now, slow and healing, comforting sex, the kind that only two people who really know each other deeply and honestly can have.

I bury both hands in his hair as he devotes attention to my breasts, licking and suckling my nipples until I'm panting, my body flushed and thrumming with feeling. It's wonderful to feel this alive once again. He lifts his head, looks into my eyes, smiling, murmurs, "Beautiful Lissy," before he nuzzles my belly and then dips down even lower. He spreads my legs wide apart for him, touches me there almost reverently, his fingers sliding easily into my slick heat. "So, so beautiful..." They're replaced by his questing mouth, as I cry out his name, giving myself fully over to his care now. He's still gentle, patient, lapping at my velvety wetness as he slowly, expertly lifts me to a shimmering pinnacle of sensation. When he pushes his tongue inside me, back, forth, over and over, then out, flicks lightly over my clit, and then harder, I can't stand it anymore and I come, groaning with heady pleasure. I open my eyes to find he's watching me; I know he loves to do that, see the powerful play of emotions across my face. His own face is damp and then when he comes back over me and kisses me, I shudder at my own taste on him.

"Good?" I can only nod, trying to focus on his handsome face, feeling dazed and still trembling with aftershocks. "I missed that," he whispers. 

"I missed you." Boldly reaching, I take his cock in my hand; feel its steely hardness pulsing with life, with need. For me.  He closes his eyes as I run my fingers up and down its length, as gently as he touched me. "Uh uh. Look at me," I coax, and he does, the look on his face so stunning that it takes my breath away. "I want you inside me."

"Now?"

"Please." He startles me by suddenly shifting so he's beneath me now, lifting me over him. One big hand comes up, runs over my short hair and then he says, "Take me there, then." He's putting all the control in my grasp, I realize. Trying to erase any awkwardness that might be remaining, letting me be the one to reunite us. Still holding him in my hand, I guide him to me, feel him nudging his way inside, and then I move down over him and gasp as I take him all the way in. Our gazes meet and it's more than just a physical act now; we're connected completely emotionally once again. Oh, god. I've got him back. I set the pace, at first slow and careful, then, as passion overtakes us, deeper, harder, and more frenetic.

He reaches up and cradles my face in his palm as he did before, as I try to look into his wonderful, mesmerizing eyes. Finally I focus on him and he growls out, "Watch us." Forcing my gaze downward with his, I see where we're intimately joined, and the sight of him moving in and out of me is too much; I cry out as I feel my climax sweep over me in a torrential rush; and he's there, too, giving a triumphant shout as we both realize we're finally together, we've finally found ourselves again.

I collapse over him, and he wraps his arms around me, holding me to him. "I love you, Lissy," he tells me, kissing the top of my head. 

"I love you, too, Russell." I can barely get the words out; I'm so pleasantly satiated and exhausted. We fall asleep that way; probably the best, most peaceful sleep either of us have had for awhile.

The next days are filled with wonder, rediscovering why we fell in love to begin with. I know we're once more in this sort of 'honeymoon' period, where everything is grand and perfect, our love strong and unshakable, but we still have troubles, I won't deny that. Still, I've vowed to help him, to support him. Most of all, to love him.

I know my family has misgivings about our reconciliation, a few friends too. They saw the devastation that was; they know too much what drives him and what haunts him. Part of it is public record; long before we even met. But they love me, and they do love him, despite the hurt he's caused me; so they wish us well as we leave to go back to Australia. He needs to be home, needs the support of his side of the family right now, and I simply need to be with him.

We spend some time in Sydney, in therapy sessions, both individually and together. I can see, in our ones as a couple; that the struggle is still there. I don't know how he does on his own but when we're there with each other, I sense his reluctance to talk about himself readily; to discuss his problems. It's like he's holding back. I know a lot of it has to do with his ingrained distrust of the media; so very many years of untruth being put out time and again breeding suspicion and doubt. I've known for a long time that despite all appearances, rumor and speculation wounds him, bothers him more than he's ever let on. I think it's all part of his 'image', that hateful, hurtful bad-boy thing, that he hides behind as a defense mechanism. Because I know, without a doubt, firsthand, that he is one of the most generous, loving, human beings I've ever met. He tries, he really does, but I worry that it's more for my sake again than for his. His acting skills come in handy when things get too intense or too personal, and I feel like a coward when I don't call him out on it.

We do reach some truths, though, small breakthroughs that make me hopeful that this will become easier and will work for us. Things are better now, for certain. He doesn't have the moodiness and the melancholy that I used to sense in him before. I think part of this has to do with the fact that we're together again; but I'm grateful and will hold on to that with all the strength I can muster for now. He can lean on me all he wants, all he has to.

Finally, we return home to the farm, where he can truly be himself. Things are very normal here. He's indefinitely put his career on hold to try to work through this with me. Tentatively, he's scheduled recording sessions with the band in Austin, Texas in a few months; by then I hope he will be strong and ready to go again, a lot of the pressures eased; and besides, his music is such a joy and an outlet for him too, that I can't deny him any of it.

Sugar is happy to see me; a lot of time right when we come home is spent riding her along with Russ' beloved Honey, constant companions to each other. I immediately fall in love with Sugar's daughter, delicate and sweet but also headstrong and determined. "Kind of like you," Russ teases, the first time he shows her to me. She bonds with me immediately.

I name her Hope; for all that she stood for in our time of need. 

We can't shut out the past and the problems forever; at my insistence we continue to go to sessions in Coffs. He's opening up more, both in therapy and with me, at home. Mostly at night. We never have any problems communicating with each other at night. Soon after we return home, I have my period, so I know we didn't make a baby. But really, we're both working so hard at building our relationship back up that there will be time for that later. We're both concentrating on just the two of us now and it's an effort we're putting our all into. 

A good deal of time during the day, when we're doing ordinary things, it's wonderful. Sometimes, there's still the sense of walking on eggshells, as if we don't want to do anything to upset the harmony we're trying to create. At night, when we're alone together, we're in our own world and can lock the rest of it out until morning. Those are the times I know he's not holding anything back or hiding any part of himself from me. It's still not always easy. For some reason, I'm constantly tired, not feeling myself yet; I chalk it up to all the stress I've been under and the fight to return to normalcy. But we're improving more and more; I just know it'll take time and I'm willing to let it happen without forcing it.

We return to Sydney a couple of months after the initial reconciliation, because he's got some things to work out with his agent and his publicist and we simply need and want a vacation. I didn't want to go; I've felt rather ill lately, like I've caught some sort of bug. But I don't want to leave him alone; it's not that I don't trust him or think there's a problem with it; but that frankly, I need him as much as he needs me.

The second night we're there I feel really awful. I wonder if it's a stomach virus or something, because I've been having these cramps all day. I haven't been eating well for awhile now, something Russ has pointed out and nagged about time and again. He's made me promise to see a doctor while I'm here, and I finally gave in and scheduled an appointment in a couple of days.

I'm horrified when I go to the bathroom and see blood, knowing it's not normal, not my monthly cycle, because I had that about a week ago, off schedule yet again, my body still completely mixed up from everything that's gone on. It wasn't at all heavy; but this is, and I'm terrified. He comes running and insists we go immediately to the hospital.

I can see the fear in his eyes, but he's being strong for me as they take me in alone to Emergency. They get things under control, get me settled down, having to put me under just a bit to do it, but by this time, I'm begging for Russell, and I know he's probably freaked out, too. The doctor says he wants to speak to both of us together, so they allow Russ in, and he's right there, gripping my hand tightly as we both wait to find out what's wrong with me. He's trying to be comforting, as the doctor enters, reading my medical charts.

"The good news is you'll still be able to have another child in the future." 

We look confused at each other, wondering what children have to do with anything at all. Then an icy dread, a realization seizes my entire being as I gaze helplessly at him and see he's coming to the same conclusion.

He speaks first. "I don't understand." His voice is incredibly gravelly as he tightens his hold on my hand. 

"We weren't able to save this baby. I'm sorry." 

I see the shock, the horror on his face, in his eyes, and know it must surely mirror mine. The doctor looks from me, to him, and then back again. 

"You didn't realize you were pregnant?" He's speaking to me but I can't answer, tears pouring down my cheeks. How much more will we be asked to endure? What will this do to us? To Russ? The look he has right now breaks my heart. He's nearly about to cry himself, and I can't bear this. I just can't.

Pulling himself somewhat together, he grinds out in response, "No." I think my reaction made that perfectly clear; there is no way I would have ever kept anything like that from him, and he knows this. "She hasn't been eating right...she's lost a bit more weight, actually...but no. We didn't know. We didn't fucking know." Then he chokes out, "How far along?"

"About two months." Oh, god. I know it was that night, that first night back together. When we actually talked about having a child. And it happened; right then, but neither of us knew it.

"But..." my voice is tiny, however, somehow, it captures their attention. "But I had my period...I've been having...."

"Irregular? Spotty?" Normally I'd be almost embarrassed getting quizzed like this in front of my husband. When I nod, the doctor says, "That happens sometimes." He looks incredibly sympathetic, which makes me cry even more. That, and the extreme misery on Russell's face, which I had hoped I would never witness ever again. "I'm so sorry."

"Jesus." Russell's tone is agonized, full of pain and trauma and grief, his hand still around mine in a death grip, as if I'm his only link to sanity. My arm's actually going numb, but I don't notice, because the rest of me is already without feeling. "Fuck. Oh, god. Dear god...Shit. Oh, fuck..." no one seems offended by his profanity, probably because they're all caught in this just as we are. He gropes blindly in his shirt pocket for a cigarette; one of the nurses softly but firmly reminds, "You can't smoke in here, Mr. Crowe."

"Oh...right...sorry..." he can't or won't look at me. And then he cries too, I can't watch him like this anymore, so I squeeze my eyes shut tight. I think everyone is frozen into place; because who would ever imagine him losing it completely? Call me cynical, but I think they're swept up in this very real drama of it all. And then I can't take it any more either; the world closing in around me and suffocating me. I begin breathing in short, shallow gasps, nearly hysterical with my own grief, and from very far away, as if in a long tunnel, I hear someone say, "She's hyperventilating." There's a flurry of activity that's all a blur as I try to find Russell in all of it, only knowing he's still there by the feel of his cold hand still clutching mine, and then a plastic mask covers the lower half of my face and I gulp in the oxygen, trying to open my lungs back up and breathe again. From an endless distance, I hear the doctor go, "We need to sedate her."  Then there's a prick in my arm and soon I'm drifting towards blessed oblivion. Everything starts to lose color, going to shades of gray and then darker...

The last thing I see is Russell, looking at me now, deep into my eyes, almost a plea, really, for me to hang on and not leave him...and then everything goes black.

When I wake up, it's to this sort of haze. My hand is sore; there's an IV taped to the back of it, with a long tube leading up to this bag of clear fluid. I lie there and watch the drops slowly leave, run down the length...drip, drip...and into my body. I have no idea what it is and don't care. Fresh grief washes over me as I remember the baby we lost, before we even knew of its existence. Our child died before it even got to make itself known. I wonder how things would have been different had it survived until I went to the doctor's when I was scheduled to.

Then my gaze is drawn to my bedside, where there's a chair...and my husband's half in, half out of it...his hand is still covering mine, the one without the IV, where it rests at my side. He probably never let it go. He's asleep, his head lying against our clasped hands on the bed. He looks so weary, his face pale, lines etched into its surface that I never noticed before...that I suspect only recently were put there by this latest tragedy in our lives. We both wanted a baby...we would have wanted THIS baby, if we were only given half a chance. I lift my other hand, careful not to jar the needle, and stroke his hair gently, mourning for him, for me, for this child. I hope it knew how very much we loved it, how very much we yearned for it, although we didn't know it was even there.

Russ opens his eyes and there's such an empty sadness there that I feel tears coming again. How could our lives, once filled with so much joy, become this? But beneath the sadness, I see him struggling to be strong, for my sake. "Are you okay?" he asks, and I shake my head, unable to speak, so lost am I in my own sorrow.

He raises his head, straightens in the chair, wincing a little with stiffness---I don't know how long either of us have been out. Cautiously, he moves my sore hand back then wraps his fingers tight around the other one and just looks at me. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, at a loss for more right now.

"Me, too." Neither of us is to blame, but it seems the only thing to say at this moment.

Reaching out for me, he brushes my hair back, his touch lingering on my face. He stops the track of a single tear with one finger, wipes it away, and watches several new ones take its place. "We don't even know if it was a boy or a girl," he says, quietly. I swallow and have to look away briefly from the agony I see in him. I don't stop him from talking, though, because I know he needs some sort of outlet from this. He rambles on and I let him.

"You're safe in here...Mark and David are out there watching over things...I'll stay here, not leave you, until we can get you home...got you this private room...they wanted to put you in fucking Maternity, can you imagine...?" his voice trails off and he gazes at me again. "Lissy, look at me," he commands, then more softly, "Please." It reminds me of the last time I cried, the night we conceived the baby, when he begged me not to shut him out. We're united in this, too, in our suffering. I turn to him, still unable to say anything more. 

"We'll have another one, sweetheart...as soon as you're ready...it will be okay, the doctor says..." I close my eyes and he makes a strangled sound. So I open them and now his eyes are closed and he's crying.

Awkwardly I lift my sore hand again, brush my fingers through his tousled hair, slip down and cradle his cheek against me. "Russ..." I whisper, barely finding the strength within me to say that one simple word.

The floodgates open then. He's on the bed now, drawing me into his arms, still so careful not to jostle me. And we just hold each other and cry, grieving for the loss of our unborn child.

I spend a couple of days in the hospital; besides the stress brought about by the miscarriage, I'm also suffering from anemia and exhaustion. As he promised, Russ hardly ever leaves my bedside. I wish I knew what he was thinking...he's turned in on himself, which is yet another source of heartbreak for me...I know he loves me but he's shuttered even more now than ever before. Maybe that's his way of dealing with this, or not dealing with it, as the case may be. He's trying valiantly to remain strong, which I'm eternally grateful for as I need to lean on him this time. I worry about him so but am still caught up in my own lost thoughts and feelings.

Only the people that have an immediate right to know are told what's really gone on. The official word is that I've been hospitalized for the exhaustion, nothing more. His family wants to come to Sydney; mine from the US; but Russell told them that we need time alone right now, and they respect our wishes. I don't know how we can survive together at this point though, when we're both only going through the motions and I don't feel that there will ever be a way out of this intense pain we're experiencing.

On the one hand, I feel the need to talk about the baby; if we treat it as the reality it once was, maybe we can move through this better. To pretend it never existed is wrong and cruel. But thinking about him or her only keeps things fresh and raw, and I wonder if we will ever make it through this intact. In a way I'm glad this happened before we had a chance to know; to celebrate and start to plan, to give it a name and an identity. I think it definitely would have been more difficult if that had occurred. Not that this is any easier.

He takes me home to our Sydney apartment to recuperate for a little while before we are to return to the safe haven of the farm.  He's solicitous and indulgent now, almost to the point of being annoying. But I understand it's something that makes him feel useful, so I let him pamper me. I can hardly lift a hand without him asking if I need anything and jumping to get or do it for me. Still I wonder what's going through his mind; if the loss of the baby is festering inside of him, because every so often when he doesn't think I'm looking I catch his overwhelming sadness and it hurts that he won't share that with me. When I try to bring up the subject of our child, hoping to get him to face it head on with me he quickly changes it or gets that closed-off look that makes me back away.

Ironically, I feel, as we head back to the farm, that I'm the one moving towards acceptance of all of this much more rapidly than he is. I would help him, as I promised him, if he would only let me.

We settle back into life there but things have changed yet again. They're now going back to the way it used to be, the bad way where he won't open up to me and share his hurt and sorrow. I'm fearful he's going into a relapse, into a nosedive. There's not the rage and the volatility, but there's nothing, and that's nearly worse. He's still so caring of me, so tender it moves me to tears, but even as he gives love to me with every action, he won't do the one thing I need him to do and open up his heart to let me inside.

Physically, I'm fine now; the doctor has given the go-ahead to try to get pregnant once more, if we want; but I can't see us being able to be sexually intimate when we're so far apart emotionally. I know that, realistically, the odds of a second miscarriage are fairly small; feel pretty ready psychologically to try it; but when I mention this to him, he only nods, and doesn't pursue it---or me---any further. At night he holds me as if he's afraid that letting go would mean him losing me, too; but that's all. I still do know that he loves me, as I do him; I can feel it and see it in his eyes; but he's afraid and I don't know how to get him out of it. The depression is back and it's nearly crippling him, but he's trying to keep it at bay, and it's failing.

One night, as we're both settling down for the evening in our bedroom, I suggest something the doctor told me, something I've been thinking about for awhile. "Maybe...we should go to grief counseling."

"We don't need fucking grief counseling, Lissy. I reckon we've both done enough grieving as it is to last us a damn lifetime." He looks at me and the dead, stricken expression in his eyes scares me. "Therapy doesn't solve everything, you know."

"No...But we need to talk about it, sweetheart." 

"No, we don't." 

"Yes, we do." I'm numb with fear, my heart thudding at the idea of a confrontation with him, but we cannot continue on like this. "We need to talk about what we've lost. We need to help each other get through this."

"We lost something we didn't even know we had, Liss! Do you know how that makes me feel?"

"No," I say quietly, truthfully. "Because you won't tell me." 

"Well, let me tell you now." He's pacing, full of agitation, as I sit on the edge of the bed watching him. "Angry...fucking angry. If I'd known you were pregnant, I'd have made you take a hell of a lot more care with yourself than you did. If I..."

"Do you blame me for losing the baby?" Tears...those awful, hated tears...spring to life. 

"No. I don't blame you, Lissy, not ever. I blame myself." 

"Oh, Russ, no..." He's finally opening up, trusting me with his emotions, but it isn't what I wanted to hear. I stand and try to get him to stop. He wrenches his hands from mine as I try to grab hold of them and keeps pacing. I just stand there and helplessly follow his moves...back, forth...his hand raking over and over through his hair, over his beard...he's so close to losing it now. Please hold on, baby, I plead silently with him.

"If you hadn't been under all this stress from all the shit...maybe you'd still be pregnant and everything would be fine. I put you through hell...made you lose the baby..." This is the first time he's said the word in a long time, speaking of the child too much for him to bear. It's all coming to a head now, though.

"You didn't make me lose it, Russell. It just happened. It wasn't meant to be. It's very painful, but that's what it is, honey. I didn't take care of myself, I didn't know. If I had, I would have tried harder. But I can't blame myself, and I don't blame you, and I don't want you to blame yourself, either. It had nothing to do with that. It just wasn't meant to be." I beg him, "Please, tell me you understand that."

"On one level, I do. I really do, Lissy. But..."

"No buts, Russ. You need to know that it wasn't your fault." I see the walls come up and want to scream in frustration. "We need to start going to therapy and counseling again. I think that would help. If we..."

"I am NOT," he growls out, "going to sit there in front of some complete stranger and spill my fucking guts any more. It is none of their goddamn fucking business what we're going through. What I'm going through."

I know, KNOW that this is the grief and suffering talking. It was starting to work before the miscarriage. I know that he realizes how much it helps him. But I still can't help trying to rouse him back to life. "It's MY fucking business, though, what you're going through. Damn it, talk to me! Tell me what you're feeling. I want to help you. I promised you I would help you."

"How can I let you help me," he says, his voice rough, "when I can't even help myself?"

"THAT IS WHAT I AM HERE FOR!!" I grab his arm; make him stop and look at me. "Let me in. You begged me once not to shut you out, now I'm doing the same thing. Let me in, Russell. Please share with me. I want to share your pain. I need to. Please."

"I can't." God, that hurts. I realize that it truly isn't that he doesn't want to, but that he doesn't know how, and he simply can't right now. Then he says, shocking the hell out of me, "I'm leaving for Austin at the end of the week."

I had assumed he'd cancelled that when all of this happened, so knowing that he'd still been planning this all along makes me really hurt now. And angry. Oh, so resentful, and I'd rather not feel that way towards him. "Please don't go now, not like this."

"I have to." He's so distant, but very deep down inside; I can see that he is trying to get me to understand. 

"You need to stay here so we can work this through. You need to confront your feelings, Russ."

"You know what I want, Lissy? I want to feel alive again."

So honest it makes me want to cry. That's how I feel, too. But I can't help firing back, "And going to Austin with the band, leaving me here, is going to do that for you? Do they do that for you, Russ? Make you feel alive? You can't feel that with me anymore?"

"You make me feel so much, Liss. So much..."

I sob. At least now there's fire in his eyes, I'm not sure from what just yet. "Make me come alive, Russell. Please. Help me remember what that's like."

He closes his eyes. He's relentlessly slipping away, coaxing and pleading isn't working, so I goad, "Or are you incapable of feeling anything anymore?"

"Goddamn..." Now he IS alive, his big body practically rumbling with tension. I'm fearful of what I might have provoked, but at least it's not that frozen ambivalence anymore. "You want feeling, Lissy? I'll show you fucking feeling." Shackling my wrist in his hand, he draws me onto the bed, as he did that night we first reconciled, pinning me once more under him. I'm grateful to be feeling anything anymore, so I let him furiously pull at my clothing and his, knowing still that he will never hurt me. I'm crying as I did the other time we were this way, but this time, if he notices, it doesn't deter him or make him stop and slow down. I'm crying because I love him so much and I don't want to lose him, don't want him to slip back under the debilitating depression and uncertainty once again. At least now he IS feeling, is reacting, and that has to be positive...isn't it?

When we're both naked, he pushes one finger inside of me and I moan, clenching involuntarily around it, wanting this so. "You're so wet, Liss," he rasps, adding a second and making me cry out sharply, thrashing beneath him. "You're capable of feeling, too." Then he thrusts into me, pounding, as if he's trying to leave his imprint on me forever, as if he's staking a claim. And I don't mind; in fact, I move frantically also, as if to hold on to every emotion that's crashing through us right at this moment.

All the anger and hurt and tension is coming out in our mating this time. It's mindless fucking; not making love, although when I look at him I can see the underlying need and deep, deep devotion for me through his torment and our heartbreak. But it's what we both have to have right now to feel that feeling of life once more. He pours himself into me as I feel my own body's eager response; then we're both tangled in a twisted mass of arms and legs on the bed.

Eventually he moves, gently rearranging my limp self so he's curled protectively around me, and then he kisses me softly. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

I sigh. "Let's not be sorry for anything anymore," I tell him. 

We just lay there, both thinking our own thoughts. Then he slowly turns me over and he makes love to me, with infinite tenderness and care this time. And we do feel alive now, even though this still doesn't solve or fix anything.

In the morning, I wake to an empty bed. I go off in search of him and finally find him sitting at the kitchen table, just staring into space. 

"I thought you'd left." I sit across from him; try to look into his eyes. At first, he keeps his gaze averted from mine, but then he turns towards me and I can see the torment and the struggle he's going through written so clearly there.

"No, I'm here." But he's only merely just a shell of the man I used to know. I wish he'd get his fire back, I truly do. I have a dark hollow ache inside of me, too, the place where the baby once was and in my heart, because I feel I'm losing him again. His leaving isn't going to help; it will merely postpone his facing reality and starting to move onward.

"But you're still going to Texas." It's a statement, not a question.

"I've got to, sweetheart. I've just got to." I feel that he's only pursuing this because he feels trapped. I'm hoping it's not that he feels trapped by me personally, but by himself and his own turmoil of emotions. But fleeing to America isn't going to leave them behind. He's taking them with him, and I'm afraid that, as in the past, they'll all boil over in a catastrophe sooner or later. I deeply fear sooner.

I know that I can't force him to mourn; to mourn in the same way as me, to move through the stages of it at my pace rather than his. I know he does have feelings about it; that he still loves me but he's confused and hurt, so much, about the baby's loss. It's the fact that he's choosing to shut it all out and ignore it that bothers me. It would be so easy to look at his leaving for Austin as proof that he doesn't care and to let myself feel resentment and blame, but I somehow sense that it is a way for him to throw himself into something else, immerse himself in something that doesn't remind him of what we've suffered and lost. 

I also know that I'm guilty of running, too. Hell, when we separated, I know I told him---and myself---that it was because I needed to give us some room to sort things through. But really, it was a form of escape, despite what I made myself believe. But I'm tired of both of us running from each other. It doesn't resolve a single thing.

"I wish you wouldn't." I can't make my feelings any clearer on this.

"Yeah, I know you do."  

"Russell, you don't have to try to be stoic and strong for me anymore. You don't have anything to prove." He doesn't look at me again and I can see he's trying not to lose it. "It's okay, honey." I reach for him but he stands, almost knocking his chair over, and shoots back, "It's not okay, Lissy. Why won't you understand that?" And he leaves without a backwards glance.

He's gone most of that day until deep in the night, when he comes to bed. I'm sure he knows I'm awake but he doesn't say anything, just slips in beside me and holds me tight to him. And I let him, finally falling asleep in his arms right before dawn.

The next morning, he's gone again before I wake up. Stays out most of the day; I think he's working himself ragged trying to eradicate all that's haunting him. It won't do the trick but I say nothing. Comes to me at night, and we still don't talk about it, simply hold each other and lie awake until exhaustion overtakes us and we sleep.

This becomes the pattern for the days remaining until he says one evening, "I'm headed out tomorrow." 

It's useless to argue, to beg him to remain here, so I only nod. And tell him, "Maybe you need to do this." 

"Maybe I do." 

"Well, then..." I shrug and turn from him. Then he's there, cuddling me close. "Please, don't be angry, Liss."

"I'm not. I'm trying to understand. But..." I can't fight this out any more. What we need is to open up. And I hope he'll realize that. So I just say, "I love you."

He doesn't respond with words. I'm surprised when he kisses me, and then, silently, tenderly, makes love to me. It's as good as always; in this physical act, everything's open and out there and there's no hiding or keeping secrets. He gives to me, with his body, what he finds so difficult to in other ways. I feel it so I know there's a chance we might find more again. Soon, I hope.

Very early in the morning, he kisses me and when I come half awake, I see he's already fully dressed and ready to go. He runs his hand over my hair, his gaze boring deep into mine in the hazy twilight, and then he leaves. Just like that. I know what he wanted to say and what he couldn't.

Damn him. But, like me once before, I feel that giving him time and space might actually work for us. Something's got to. 

This is like it was the previous time, only now he's in the United States and I'm the one left behind on the farm in Australia. I choose to stay put because I have to believe that eventually he will come to terms with it all and want to try again. Because he told me, that night we found each other again, that we can start over as many times as it takes, and I love him too much to let it all disappear now.

When he first calls from Austin, he's deeply apologetic, sorry he slunk off like a thief in the night, but I understand, too, why he left as he did. I simply tell him to stay all right and keep in touch with me, and that I hope he finds what he's looking for. He doesn't ask what that is, because I think he knows. I am hoping that with the guys, he finds some peace and is able to just concentrate on the music, his passion for it and begin to heal some of his heartache. I still worry about him being alone and so far from me, knowing he's certainly not going to go to therapy in Texas, and pray that he is truly strong enough to stay afloat.

I immerse myself in making just a simple, ordinary life here. Luckily, I have Russell's side of the family for support; they keep me involved and interested in things. It's not a monumental happening, but it's a start. I take care of Sugar, start training Hope, as Russ helped me to do with Shug when we first got her. Still keep up my counseling in Coffs Harbour; Russ' mom or niece goes with me once a week and then we usually have a girls' day out of it; shop and go out to eat. I'm regaining my strength back, gaining weight this time instead of becoming painfully thin; and I'm feeling more like the confident Lissy I was in the past. Russell calls me nearly every evening, as often as he can, and we just talk like we did before, not mentioning anything deep right now and most certainly not the baby. I don't know how he's doing dealing with that yet; I have moved on. The ache is there, it will always be there when I think of losing our child, but I accept that there must have been a reason we didn't have it, and I try to get by.

I find out what that reason might be after he's been gone a few weeks. I start to feel slightly under the weather again after feeling so good, and then I do some figuring in my head and begin to wonder, pray, scarcely daring to hope...without telling a single soul, I go off and get a pregnancy test and take it one afternoon when everyone's out.

It's positive. I've actually bought more than one, just to be certain...and so I take them, too, one right after another. Every one comes up a winner. 

I'm overjoyed, a little bit apprehensive about going through all this again, knowing about it this time, even though I feel different with this one, very strong and healthy. Sad that I can't share it with Russ. I could, I know, easily make the phone call, even bring it up when he'll surely call me tonight, but if I tell him now that I'm pregnant, he'll rush right home, of course, and I don't want him back that way. I want him to come back when he's good and ready to, not because he knows that I'm carrying our child.

So I also don't tell anyone else in the family. They'd understand my reasoning, but I don't want one of them to slip out of excitement and tell him. It's my little secret for now; I hope he returns before I begin to show.

I've carried this knowledge around inside of me for a couple of weeks, when one evening the phone rings and when I answer, it's not Russell calling me, but Dean.

"Thought you should hear it from me before you read it somewhere," he says, in a soothing tone, when I ask what's wrong and where Russ is. 

Oh, dear lord. He quickly reassures, "He's fine. But...he got drunk last night out at one of the local bars and there was a brawl...he's a little roughed up. The other bloke says he won't press charges if Russ offers a public apology. It's spreading fast, so I'd hoped it hadn't gotten to you..."

"No." I close my eyes, ask, "Why did it happen?"

"He was talking about the baby..." he means the one we lost, of course, "and he was pretty down low. When this other fella started razzing him about his acting and... well, his masculinity...Russ snapped and tried to beat the shit out of him."

"Can I talk to him?"

"Don't think he wants to talk to you, love. He's still down and he's kinda ashamed this even happened." 

"Please put my husband on." My tone is firm and I think Dean knows firsthand from Russ not to mess with me when I get like this. There's this huge pause and then, "Lissy?"

"Oh, sweetheart. Are you okay?" 

"Yeah." He tries to make a lame joke and says, "But you should see the other bloke." When I don't respond, he asks, "Are you mad at me?"

"I'm sorry this happened, honey. But no, I'm not mad at you." It doesn't excuse him, but at least I can understand his motivation. I'm frustrated he did this again, so publicly, but being mad at him isn't going to address the deeper issues. "It's starting again, though, isn't it? The rage and the lashing out." This time he's the silent one.

"Who were you talking about the baby to?" I don't want the miscarriage to become public knowledge, because he's so precariously on the edge now that if the entire world knew, I'd hate to see what that did to him. Unconsciously, my hand comes down to protectively cover the new little one within me.

"Just good old Billy." He gives a little scoffing laugh and tells me, "He's a damn good listener when he's equally drunk." 

"Sweetie..." I bite my lip at a retort that comes to mind and say instead, softly, "I'm a good listener, too...and I don't have to be drunk." 

"You're a good everything to me, Lissy. I love you."

"I love you, too." There's another pause, then I ask very gently, "Will you come home so we can work through this together?"

"I...I'm not sure." 

"Fair enough. Please do me a favor, and think about it, though?" Please, please, please.

"Okay." 

"Russell...word of this is going to get out, you know, and I want you to just ignore it, like you have in the past, and just concentrate on what you need to, all right? Call me anytime you have to. I'm waiting for you." We're waiting for you, I so want to add.

"I love you," he tells me again, not committing to anything I just asked him, and then he hangs up first.  

Really, I'm not angry. He needs help, mostly from me, but as before, he's got to be the one who realizes it. 

I tell the new baby regretfully, "Your Daddy is the most stubborn person I know. But we're going to be here for him, right? We're both just going to love him until he sees, until he understands."

Also like the time prior, after this latest setback, I don't hear from him for several days. The news comes out about the bar fight; as well as his formal public apology, eventually it'll all blow over and become another volatile chapter in the ongoing saga of Russell Crowe. I pray he is dealing with it all, suspecting he's hiding out with the guys somewhere deep in the heart of Texas---ha---licking his wounds and trying to cope.

I would let him go, give him the personal space that I feel he needs, but I'm really worried about all of this, how he's dealing with everything---or not. Knowing him, I suspect it's the 'not' part. So I call his cell one day, knowing it's late at night in Austin, just to see. Besides which, I miss him and need to hear the sound of his voice.

He answers mid-second ring, and in the background, I can hear the others talking and playing around with instruments. "Sweetheart?" 

"Lissy? What is it? What's wrong?" 

And this is when I come so close to telling him about the pregnancy and this new baby. He needs something positive, but I just can't bring him back to me like this. I feel guilty keeping this from him, but I want him to find, on his own and in his heart, the reasons for wanting to come back to stay.

"Nothing. I'm all right, everyone here's all right. I just wanted to talk to you." Then I have to ask, "How are you?"

"I miss you." I can see him so clearly, standing there, that soft, somewhat sad smile on his face as he speaks to me. 

"I miss you," I respond. Then, "Sweetie...it's so late...you're still recording?"

"Don't have anything else to do." I know what it is. He's throwing himself into this music thing to keep everything else locked out. If he frantically attacks the recording, he won't have to face the other issues. But we have to. We have to move on. Once again, I have to fight the urge to tell him about our baby. We need to get over the heartbreak of the last one. He never finished speaking about it, and obviously, if it drove him to that bar brawl, it's still weighing heavily on his mind.

"Baby...you can't keep driving the other guys on like this." I know it's his doing; he likes being in control and I'm sure they're going along with him because they know the kind of pain he's in. I sense his panic when he realizes this isn't going to be one of our pleasant little social calls. "We have to talk about a bunch of stuff, honey."

There's just silence and I close my eyes, force myself to wait, feeling badly that I'm making him confront this from afar. But it can't go on like this. It can't.

Then he says, "Can I get this wrapped up and call you back in about an hour, Liss?"

"Yes. I'll be here." 

"One hour. I promise." 

It is the longest hour of my life; I worry that he won't call, but I have to believe that he will, even though he probably knows we're going to talk about some things he is going to find difficult to deal with. I work out what I need to say to him in my mind; drawing on the as-yet mostly invisible presence of the new little life inside of me for confidence and comfort.

The phone rings an hour and ten minutes later. I pick up immediately. "Russ?"

"I'm here, love." 

"I want us to talk about the baby we lost," I blurt out, hating myself for jumping right in when what I really planned to do was ease carefully into it. 

"No." Very adamant; then, a little more gently, "I can't." 

"You were able to talk about it to your friend in a bar, but not to me?" Of course, he had to be ripping drunk to do so, but that still really bothers me. 

"I'm not shutting you out, Lissy. I'm not." 

"You are, sweetheart. Please...I begged you before...let me help you through this." There's a heartrending pause, and then I ask, "Can I talk about the baby then?"

"If you want." But I know he doesn't want me to. Still, I have to do this, to try opening this up between us, to make him understand.

"Russ, I'm a part of this also. I'm sorry you're having a hard time dealing with this, but I lost the baby, too. It wasn't just you. And despite what I told you...I still feel guilty. I do. What if I had known...what if I HAD taken care of myself, what if I had done this or that...but it is not going to bring this child back." My thoughts turn to the one we're having now, the one he doesn't yet know about, and it brings hope while at the same time, every day, I fear a recurrence of our prior tragedy. I so want to tell him, yet I still can't; does that make me a bad wife to him? A bad mother to our yet unborn baby? And I realize that the new baby isn't a replacement for the one we were going to have; it will never take that one's place. I'm still working through my own grief while trying to make myself whole for this coming child. But I can't and won't forget the first one. "This child was real, Russell. It lived, inside of me, for two months. You can't pretend, you can't act like ignoring the memory of it will make it go away. You can't deny its existence. I realize that is how you're managing to cope with it, but you can't treat it like it never was."

He lets out this gulping sob that breaks my heart all over again. The wounds are fresh once more; the chasm so wide between us that I wonder that even if he knew about this new pregnancy, it would be enough to bring him back to me. This happened so soon after the other upheaval and our separation that he barely had a chance to recover from one thing before another struck him. I'm the same way; but I didn't have the emotional issues and depression he had before this, either.

"I...I want it back, Lissy," he chokes out. "Our dreams died along with that baby." 

"But I'm still here!" Oh, dear lord, this was the wrong thing to do, bringing it up like this over the phone. I need him to be here, looking at me, seeing the honesty and the love I feel for him. "Don't tell me all our dreams have died, because that hurts me, so badly. Do...do you think I'm...inadequate...that I can't matter to you anymore?" I whisper, "If...if we both hadn't been hurting so badly...if you weren't so upset and angry...would you still have made love to me those nights before you left? Or...am I somehow...a failure...to you?"

"No." His tone is fierce now. "If anyone's failed here, it's been me." 

"Baby...no. No. You've not failed in anything, anyone. Losing the baby doesn't mean you're weak, or any less of a man, or anything like that. But right now, it's okay to feel helpless and powerless. It's part of the whole process. I feel that way, too. I wish you could see that. I wish you'd understand, and you'd let me help you." The issues at hand are so much greater because he is who he is. Because every move he makes is done in the spotlight, with millions of people, people who don't even know, judging him, criticizing him, and that makes this so much more painful and difficult. "Would you have loved me still, Russ? Or can you not bear to touch me, to look at me that way anymore?" I hold my breath waiting for his response.

"It felt good to feel alive with you again, Liss." He sighs and I can feel it in the depths of my soul. And his. "That hasn't changed." He softly responds, "I want you," and I feel some relief.

"I need help." Now I'm the one reaching for him, asking for his aid. "Russell...we both need to get through this, but we have to do it together. We have to find some outside support, because we're both in the same situation and we can try to help each other, but we just can't do it alone. But you need to come back so we can start this...will you?" I've finally broken down and I know he can hear it through the line. "Can you still find dreams with me?"

There's a big pause, then he says so quietly, "Yes. I want to be able to dream with you, sweetheart. I don't want to lose you, Lissy." 

"You're not going to lose me, honey. My dreams are all your dreams, too." Especially the one that's the little secret. "I love you."

"I love you." He hesitates and then says, "I'll come home...but I need some time. Just a bit. Think things out. A day or two, at the most. And then...I'll come home. Okay?"

"Please." Very softly, I ask him, "Please stop blaming yourself, Russell. Please allow yourself to mourn, all right? And know that you aren't alone...I'm here, and we have to be united in this, baby. Please."

There's a very quiet, "Yeah," and then he says once more, "Love you, Liss," and hangs up first. He always does that.  All our calls end up like that. But it's okay, as long as he knows he can reach out for me and I'll be there to reach back.

I'm asleep several nights later, dreamless in the early morning hours, when I wake, suddenly, because there's a warm body beside me in our bed. Strong arms encircle me from behind, I feel a solid, familiar protective human wall...very male...against my back, and there's a kiss on the top of my head and a tired, husky sigh of final contentment.

"I hope that's you," I whisper in the darkness.

"You who?" is the teasing, deep-voiced response.

Turning over, I can just make out his features in the bit of moonlight coming through the bedroom window. "Just you." 

"It's me." I reach up for him; run my fingers over his furry cheek. His hair's longer than when he left but other than that he's just as I recall; just as I love him. "I'm glad."

He kisses me and then surprises me when he says, "I want to talk." 

"Okay." I act like this isn't the huge thing it is when I reach back over and turn the bedside lamp on very low so we can see each other more clearly. 

"This isn't working for me, Lissy." When I stiffen slightly, unsure of what he means, he smiles a very hesitant smile and kisses me again. "I mean, being without you...trying to handle things myself...beating myself up over the miscarriage...mired in grief over losing the baby. Our child would never want that."

I think of the one that's resting between our prone bodies now as I say honestly, "No...It wouldn't." 

"I DID blame myself, despite what you said. Maybe I blamed you, too, despite what I said. I know neither of us had anything to do with it, but it was easier to feel rage than to feel sorrow. It was better to feel something than to feel nothing at all. I hated the numbness, Lissy. But what was worse was knowing you felt that, too, and I couldn't help you because I was stuck in it myself."

"We're here to help each other, Russ. That's what being a couple is all about. I told you before, you don't have to do it alone. You shouldn't have to do it alone. And you won't do it alone."

"That's why I'm here." He looks at me. "That's why I came home." 

"What happened to recording?" I can't help but ask.

"We're moving the whole thing to Sydney...as soon as I can get things straight with you." Being his usual commandeering self now, he adds, "And you're coming with me."

"Straight as an arrow, not leaving your side...I think I can do that." 

"And," he adds, taking a deep breath, "I think the therapy thing; we should give that a go again. Try to, anyway. The grief counseling thing might help, too, if you feel we can't deal with it on our own."

"Okay." I am completely, deliriously happy right now. 

"You're very agreeable, Lissy." 

"I'm open to anything, Russ. Anything that will help you and that will help us grow. Strong. Together. Always together, don't you remember?"

"Yes. I do remember." He gets that adorable smile then, the one that always melts my heart. "Can we start over?"

Mimicking what he said before, I tell him, "We can start over. As many times as you want...as many times as it takes." 

He breathes a sigh of utter relief and then we're kissing deeply, passionately. When he lets us come back up for air, he adds, "I think that's all." 

"Oh, that's not all." I smile shyly at him. "We're forgetting something." 

"We are?" He looks perplexed. 

"We're going to have more to think about than just the two of us." I draw his hand down low on my body and cover it with mine. His eyes grow wide with shock, the good kind this time. "We...we're going to..."

I nod. 

"Is...Is it all right this time?"

"I think so. We're fine." He holds me close, and I can feel his tears, happy ones, soaking my skin. 

"We're getting there, anyhow." I have to agree as I reach for him and kiss him with promise, with all the hope I can have for our future with each other. Us and this baby.

And then he says, as I did in the past, "Wow. Talk about new beginnings." 

As I said...it's a beginning. Certainly not the end. Ever.