The Miracle in July

When the moment dies
and I come to you
with a broken lie
that I made for you

[Modern Drift] by [Efterklang]

I remember in clusters of common experiences. I have all of these memories of my time in Denmark, of living with Daniel, but the order they go in is where things get blurry. After some false starts I've found that the chronology of the scenes I remember can be determined by examining the details. Who is there? Why were we there? Where are we? Had I met his friends at the gaming store [Dragon's Lair] yet? Was this before or after his kids had come and gone? What I remember plays out like animated vignettes featuring myself as a character, or perhaps a series of short movies of snapshots of activities, people, places, all clues to the sequence. This is not an optimal way to remember, but for me it works. I muddle through.

Added to these memories is my unconventional retrospective: I don't trust all of the things I remember as real – unlike the contents of my shoe box. The box I brought with me offers very little to study right now about this particular phase of my relationship with the Danish man. Oh, but today I found a very sweet email mid-way through my stay. In it Daniel promises to be home from his teaching job "by 3pm to my incense-smelling home, occupied by the woman I love." The digital love letter was Daniel's specialty. Online he was romantic as hell; offline he was labyrinthian.

There are a group of scenes that take place in a comfortable Scandinavian townhouse with a piano in the dining room and a dollhouse in the foyer. This is the home of Daniel's parents, three stories of spacious and efficient glass and elevation. These scenes – in this home – contain my most loaded memories, both good and bad. Daniel and I had dinner there twice, once with the kids and once without. On both occasions, a meal was cooking in the kitchen when we arrived, and red wine was waiting for us – all in my honor. I remember Ana sitting in her chair at the table with a dried apricot cradled in her arms like a baby while we ate. I laughed, which only encouraged her to keep it up. It was clearly an old routine to the rest of the family. I laughingly apologized, saying that I couldn't resist her ridiculous performance. A smile may or may not have flickered on Daniel's face.

His parents were in the health industry: a doctor and a nurse. His father was gray-haired with under-stated dimples. He had cool blue eyes with an arched eyebrow that did his talking for him. His mother was divine, a kind, accepting woman sincere in her affection for me. Her dark brown hair, softly curled, was a short bob. After one of the dinners she led me upstairs to a spare bedroom, in search of baby photos of Daniel. She wanted to show me one photo in particular: Daniel as a three-year-old on the family camping trip. The room was small, rectangle, and predictably organized. But the colors were warm, inviting. There were several photo albums on the shelves, and a computer on a desk.

I sat at the desk while Daniel's mother looked through the photo albums, taking one out, flipping through it, placing it back on the shelf. I watched her, my eyes searching for something. For what? I tried to act like I was completely sure of myself, that I was far from [crazy], that I was sure enough of my relationship with Daniel to have traveled 5,000 miles to be with him for two weeks. It is something that I now realize was circling through my head throughout both of the townhouse visits.

Daniel's mom logged onto the desktop computer and began to hunt through their digital photo collection. I saw photos from a recent family wedding, and a number of photos of Daniel with his kids. Then Daniel's mom paused on a photo of Daniel with his last girlfriend. I recognized her immediately; Daniel had sent me a picture of her while I was still in Portland. His mom looked sadly at me, as if she were waiting for some kind of emotional reaction.

At last I said, “Yes. I know who she is.”

Daniel's mother nodded, smiled, and pet my hand.

We gathered up some photo albums and went downstairs to sit at the dining room table with her, turning page after page of my love's past. Each picture's story brought me closer to the answer to his riddle. I didn't recognize him as a boy, although I saw where Clive got his pale-ish hair. I looked at the boy momentarily and imagined him as a man, with dark hair like his father had. He would break many hearts. Finally, the photo Daniel's mother so wanted me to see was found: a sandy-haired baby Daniel in the forest, his face between his legs beneath his little balls and penis, his ass in the air. It was the perfect photo to show the girlfriend of your son. I have a similar picture of my son, Ryan. I fell in love with Daniel's mother for unearthing that photo for me.

I laughed and loved in the townhouse – in the house where my lover's parents lived – but there are bad townhouse memories too. Like our first in-real-life fight. I remember how I realized, while still in the middle of the whirlwind of fury which erupted between us that night, that I was mad about something entirely different from what had initially set me off. The realization made me feel like a stupid little girl, a child who hadn't learned any of the lessons life had taught her.

Ana and Clive were upstairs watching television, so it was the four of us around the dinner table: the parents, the lover, and me. Dinner was over. Wine was poured, as was coffee. Maybe dessert too? I can't remember. We were talking about American real estate and Danish real estate, American laws and Danish laws. Making comparisons. I'm sure I was talking like an ass, trying to impress my foreign lover's parents, trying to appear calm as I responded to Daniel's dignified father, when Daniel suddenly countered something I had just said, interjecting himself and calling me out. I turned to him, I turned on him, a fury morphing my face into something like a hissing boil. I didn't need to utter a word. My expression said it all: [Dickhead].

His father excused himself to check on the children upstairs. His mother begged off to check on the kettle. Daniel and I were alone at the table. He quietly asked if I'd like a tour of the place, and we left the room together and headed for the ground level.

"What's wrong? Tell me," Daniel said once we got to the furthest room in the space.

"I can't right now. I don't know. I can't, I will cry." My lip trembled.

I didn't know then why a nothing-remark triggered such venom in me, but did realize that I was on the verge of ruining a very good impression on my new family.

Daniel looked down at me, I looked up at him. In that moment I remember wondering why I always felt like I was looking into a mirror when I looked at him. Our lives were so different, our evilness so different – why did I feel this kinship, this partnership, so acutely with him? We searched each others eyes and faces and then Daniel nodded.

"We must talk about this tonight," Daniel said. "Before night, we talk."

I smiled at him, squeezing a couple of tears down my cheek. Daniel wiped them away. "Come on," he said, lacing his long fingers through mine. "There's more to the place. There's a patio, too."

I was quieter for the rest of the night, and conflicted. During the bus ride home the children were fading and draped over each other with tiredness. I used my travel time to think about where my anger had come from, even why it still lingered. That answer was complex and my time in Denmark was short. But I was angry, vaguely and intensely angry. I wanted to have some sort of answer for Daniel when he brought it up later, as he'd promised to do.

The kids were put in Daniel's bed for sleep when we got home, and as soon as we sat on the couch he got straight to it.

"Tell me what I did," he said. "Tell me, and I will fix it." He pulled [my arms] around his neck.

I remember crying then, and feeling ridiculous for crying.  I was mad, and felt ridiculous for being mad in the way that I was. And I remember that Daniel held me and how good it felt to be held like that, like a small thing to be cherished. I did not mention the photos I'd seen on his parent's computer. I wasn't really sure what to make of the photos and the experience, anyway. Was it a warning? A reminder? Instead, to Daniel, I blamed my behavior on the pressure of wanting to impress his parents, his children, and the disjointed feeling of being in Denmark. I blamed my no-bullshit demeanor, my tiredness, and homesickness. And I blamed Daniel, too,  for not making the table-talk easier for me, for tripping me up on purpose.

Daniel said, "I can be whatever you desire, Shelley. You just have to tell me what it is. We can make this work."

"I'm not lucky in love," I said. It was bait, the kind women use when they want their man to profess their undying love.

"There's no such thing as bad luck. Only bad choices," Daniel said. "I'm a good choice for you. I'm not always a good boyfriend. I forget things. But I want this to work. Just tell me what to do."

Whose boyfriends make such promises? Daniel did, and then he kissed my silly wet cheeks, making fresh tears fall.

I could have told Daniel about my frustration, my anger, my disappointments, my confusion. I could have asked for answers – demanded them.   Instead I asked for his patience and apologized for my inappropriate behavior at dinner. As I did it, as I said theses words to Daniel when he sat close to me and listened to my complaints, I felt the roles in my relationship with him shift. Here I had an opportunity to make things perfectly, painfully clear, as I'd done in our digital-only past, but I didn't. I wasn't sure wanted to know the answers to my questions, so they went unasked. It all reminds me of what happened when Jake and I didn't fall in love, how neither one of us wanted to talk about it. I now see the big, bellowing elephant in the bedroom. But that night, the night I broke down at the townhouse, Daniel and I only crawled into bed together. I fell asleep with my arms around him, my sticky face pressed against his spine.

The next day we went to [Århus Central Station] with the kids, where we could catch a train to [Vilhelmsborg] for an out-of-town picnic. I had purchased my ticket at the 7-11 across the street, with Ana at my side while the boys hung back.

The four of us wandered around the shops above the train platform while we waited for our train. We wound up in an accessories shop and browsed for magnetic earrings for Ana. Even Clive made a small effort as we descended upon the racks, but no luck. Then, as we headed back to the escalator which would take us to the platform, I remember a hand, small, cold and damp, joining my hand in my pocket. I smiled down at Ana. I beamed love up at Daniel, whose eyes sparkled in return but whose face did not move.

Vilhelmsborg is home to [Danmarks Nationale Hestesportscenter], a Royal training ground for horsemanship, but it once belonged to a Dutchman named Gabriel Marselis in the 1600s. Daniel wanted us to picnic there for that reason, because it is where people of my ancestry used to live. He had packed picnic lunches for us: sandwiches of organic boneless chicken – which he had cooked himself – on freshly sliced white bread wrapped in tin foil. Beers for the grownups, soda for the kids. There were cookies for all. As we ate I could hear the stream zig-zagging alongside the trail which had lead us to we sat on the huge sloping and tiered backyard of the Dutchman's house.

It was here that Daniel took the only two photos captured of my stay. Both are of me and the kids, sitting there in the Danish countryside, looking beautiful. We ate our food, then strolled through the stables full of expensive horses and their doting equestrians. Ana remained my girl, her hand in my pocket. Clive and Daniel were our escorts on an adventure.

We returned home for dancing and pizza. A Danish talent show was on the television. And then, before we knew it, it was late. Clive fell asleep on the couch, and Ana slept in a tiny bed at the foot of the bed I was sharing with Daniel.

That night I held Daniel tight, drifting away in smiles and love, loving him and his children and his parents, soaking in his scent and the sounds of his world. How could I ever doubt that Daniel loved me,  [just me], the way that I was, here and now? After all we'd been through since my arrival – and even before that – after all the things that had happened to lead me to him, lying with him as his partner I was filled with intense joy and closeness. I felt his body go limp in my arms, like a child surrendering to deep sleep.

I found that my hand had been stroking Daniel's cock during my mind's wandering lust of my days spent with him. They were long strokes, casual rubbing. His cock had responded, but the weight of his body against mine told me that he was still asleep. He was dreaming, and he was flowing. I continued to handle him, felt his tight testicles, fingered the large, engorged vein. I may have chuckled softly, kissed his skin softly, as I remembered his forbidding sex while the children were in the apartment.

"Sorry," I breathed against his skin. I let go of him with a final squeeze to the slippery head of his penis, palming his wetness from my hand across his hip as I moved away. I scooted all the way over to the cold side of the bed, laid on my side, away from him, and began to shiver instantly. My nipples hardened. My fingers were inside me. Waiting, breathlessly. I hoped Daniel would follow me, that he would break his rule – Was it even a serious rule? Or was it meant as a joke? – and make love to me. Because I was irresistible. Because he had to have me.

Daniel pulled me back into him, my ass against his hardness. His leg parted mine with his. His hand trailed up my leg, curved over the shape of my hip, up my arm. At my shoulder he pushed, and my torso bounced forward submissively. I smiled, and let him take me. Kisses appeared on my neck, my back. Nails dug into my hip.

Daniel's hand was over my mouth. I was sucking and kissing his fingers, and sometimes I bit. I'd get a tiny nipple pinch when I was too loud. But I liked the tiny pinches. The conflict, the tension, excited me.

I reached between my legs and drew circles on my clitoris with wet fingers, I touched the places we joined, our touch [the only touch] that ever mattered. Then the Earth shook with waves of pleasure, we shook in waves of pleasure, and the warmed sea-air fogged the windows above the bed.

The Danish children, with their pink cheeks puffed, still slept soundly.

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The Miracle in July is the work of author Michelle Anderson.