Valentine's Tears

She wrapped her huge, bright-green puffer coat even more tightly round her slight frame, pulled the red, woolly bobble hat further down over her ears knowing, but not caring, how ridiculous it made her look, with her long, dark hair sticking out underneath like a scarecrow. Then she stamped her moon boots on the ice-covered path to try to restore some circulation in her feet.

Boston Common, normally so animated and full of life in the summer, was more like a lunar landscape today and, from her vantage point on the bench, the young woman looked out on rimy-white barrenness. The air was still, as if frozen itself. There was not the slightest breath of wind and the uniform, dismal pallor of the sky was like a cold, gray blanket suffocating the planet.

The weekend's icing sugar covering of snow had gelled into mud-flecked ice in the sub-arctic temperatures. It was more like the polar tundra than the oldest city park in the country, she thought. The surface of the frog pond was solid inky-black ice. In the Arctic air, it was so bitterly cold, even the ice skaters hadn't ventured out yet today.

It was just the weather Miranda would have chosen for Valentine's Day, if she could. February fourteenth was her nadir; the blackest, most depressing day of the year. Cupid and Eros danced round like demented children, laughing sneeringly at her.

The hearts and candy, the red and pink decorated shop windows, the giggles and sugary smiles on silly girls' faces all seemed to point accusing fingers at her. They seemed to be telling her that everyone in the world was allowed to be happy; everyone except her.

Just eight years ago it had all been so different, so blissful. There had been tears then, but emotional tears of great happiness and joy.

Miranda, the Valentine's Day bride, had married her college sweetheart in front of all her delighted family and friends. He had just graduated from Harvard Business School and she was settled in Boston College teaching English Literature.

She had carried red and white roses; red for passion, white for purity and eternity. Although certainly no virgin, her husband had been the only man she had ever given herself to: the only man who had ever made love to her. The only man who ever would, she had promised herself so naïvely that wonderful day.

Like fossils, the dried roses from the wedding were imprisoned for life between vellum sheets in a leather-bound book. The wedding photographs seemed more and more dated each time she looked at the album and the song, the song he had sung to her then, unaccompanied, in front of all the wedding guests, just seemed schmaltzy and shallow nowadays.

Some lines of the old Jim Croce song drifted through her mind like a dark cloud:

"But there never seems enough time To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with."

Every year, that was what he had written in the anniversary card. Well, it was really a Valentine's Card; always the picture of the patched, tatty, gray teddy bear with a diffident, downcast look and sad loving eyes.

Somewhere, deep in her souvenir box, were the little gray, cuddly toys he had given her each year with patched-up boy bear hugging or kissing patched-up girl bear.

"No, no," he had said, "She's not just a girl bear: she's got a name. Look here on the box, it says Miranda -- that's you."

Sitting in the park, Miranda couldn't help it. She could feel her eyes watering. Her mascara and make-up ran and she could feel her face freeze as the black-stained tears started falling uncontrollably down her cheeks. In the deserted frozen wilderness of the park, where no-one could hear, she screamed like a wounded animal. It was all so unfair; life shouldn't have come to this.

It was all her fault, no, it was his fault. What the hell! Did it matter now whose fault it had been? They had well and truly screwed things up between themselves hadn't they?

The outside world had just shrugged its shoulders, moved on and barely noticed. It was just another fairy-tale romance that had failed. Even her friends, though very sympathetic, hadn't really understood. Why should they?

There hadn't been a dramatic Romeo and Juliet moment, a poignant deathbed parting or a tragic fatal accident. Nothing that would make the lovers of romance novels wipe their eyes as they avidly turned the page

Miranda's divorce would just be another negligible, forgotten statistic recorded in dusty, official state archives.

But not for her! The tragedy had been real enough and had torn her happy life asunder like a tornado.

Perhaps it had been fated by the gods of Mount Olympus that she should be cast into darkness: the wound from Cupid's arrow bleeding her heart dry. There had certainly been blood.

Perhaps in the intensity of their feelings, the incredible closeness and explosive passion, they had just flown too close to the sun and their wings of love had melted. In the three years he had been gone she had tried to fully understand why they had separated. Why the love had been too intense to let them cope.

She knew now she had to move on, make a new life for herself. With the passage of time, she understood his problems had been completely different from hers. Of course, it was certainly no use crying over spilt milk. But just where was she going to find the knight in shining armor that could lead this wounded princess to salvation?

It had all been so unfair. It had all been such a complete accident. Less than four years married, they hadn't been planning a family at the time, they had no savings to speak of and the mortgage was real high. They needed to wait awhile until she got tenure and he had made it onto the company's executive program. But, just like the guy said, "Stuff happens."

She had known in early November really. She was sure women had a sixth sense about these things but, she had gone through the ritual of the kit from the drugstore, and wasn't expecting surprises as she sat in the doctor's office.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Arnold. I can confirm you are definitely pregnant."

Miranda hadn't known whether to laugh or cry.

"But, it's not possible. You know I'm on the pill."

The doctor laughed.

"I must admit it's pretty rare but, unfortunately, your case isn't going to get national recognition in the medical journals for either of us. The pill isn't completely foolproof you know; especially if the male has a very high sperm count."

Hours later, waiting nervously for her husband to come home to hear the news, Miranda shook her head and smiled. It was just so typical of her macho man, she thought. A silly picture went through her mind of a cartoon sperm on horseback, wielding a sword as he fought his way into the heavily pill-guarded castle to mate with the beautiful egg princess.

The sound of his key in the door made her bristle like a cat that suddenly senses danger.

After the momentary catatonic shock when his face seemed to say he had looked into the abyss of hell, everything was fine. She was amazed how happy he seemed to be, considering everything. She was still scared and had to ask.

"You're not putting on an act for me, honey? D'you promise to be honest with me?"

"Darling, you got me square between the eyes, I have to confess, but that was just surprise. To know you are going to have my, our baby, is the most incredible thing that ever happened to me. I, I love you."

Miranda smiled sadly as she remembered the passionate kisses that had led to clothes flying everywhere and a fevered, animal coupling on the hearth rug in front of the open fire.

It was like Christmas and birthday all rolled into one with her husband aiming random, noisy kisses at whatever part of her bare tummy he guessed the microscopic embryo might be.

She had finally surfaced for air and had a fit of the giggles seeing her bra draped over the front of the TV.

"Hey, Mister, hold your horses. Haven't you already proved your virility? Give an expectant girl a break."

"Why, love? I know we planned something different, I know we are sure as hell not organized for all this but, just the thought of an Arnold Junior knocks my socks off. You're really the cleverest thing alive."

"Don't get too carried away, darling. In any case, I think the trick is quite common from the lowest female bug to the Queen of England. Anyway, I couldn't have done it all on my own. Isn't it something about Tab A and Slot B? I think we covered that in Junior High."

"Sure, sure, when can we tell everybody, Miranda?"

"Please, can we wait a few weeks, honey? Early days can be difficult. Can we keep it our secret for a couple of months?"

The silly grin and sloppy kisses told Miranda that she had got management approval.

The next few weeks had been wonderful. Not just because he really had treated her like a cross between the Queen of England and Lady Gaga. Sure, the breakfasts in bed, the sudden enthusiasm to help with the household chores and the besotted puppy-dog adoration weren't to be dismissed lightly, but there was so much more.

Perhaps it would change when the baby was born, she had thought. Probably the goddess-like treatment would evaporate in the harsh reality of sleepless nights, four-hourly feeding and the very unromantic diapers

Nevertheless, she finally understood why she had married this slayer of dragons. Apart from being pretty damn good in the sack, he was her soul mate. As the song said, 'The person she wanted to go through time with.' Everything was perfect; except it wasn't. The storm clouds were gathering inexorably.

The pains started just before Christmas. She panicked on Christmas Eve when she found traces of blood, but he was there for her and so supportive. Like charming the birds from the trees, he had persuaded the doctor to turn out in the pitch dark, with large snowflakes falling, to come and see her. Stress and too much activity had been given as the problem. Total bed rest had been ordered.

Miranda knew she had failed to be the perfect patient. She knew she had tried and was sorry but, hell, weren't expectant mothers allowed to be a teeny bit off the wall: even if they're not fighting hard to keep an embryonic life alive?

She had to admit, despite everything that had happened, her husband had been a saint. He went to work late and came home early to look after her. She had never asked how he squared things with his superiors: perhaps she was scared to ask. She knew he often worked at home, late into the night, after she had fallen asleep.

Sex had disappeared off the radar. Between her fears and his tiredness, the passion and desire they had known had faded into the background, if not completely. She just prayed that once the baby was born they could regain the passion of the young lovers they once were.

Despite all the best efforts, on Valentine's Day she lost the baby in a painful process that had cauterized her and shredded her emotions. Then she had to endure the humiliating procedures of the ER. How can you be 'cleansed' of a life that was growing inside you and your body has rejected?

Yet again, she was amazed how her husband not only coped with her wild and irrational grief, her childish tantrums and anger, but also really tried to help her through the traumas.

Once home though, she understood that something had changed fundamentally in their relationship. For her, the major objective was to get over the physical and emotional hurt and sorrow; to put things behind her and -- get pregnant again!

For him, there seemed to be a resistance. Miranda didn't understand if he thought baby-making was more clinical than raunchy sex, or whatever.

She did know their love life had become non-existent. For Miranda, the prospect that a wild tumble under the sheets might result in getting pregnant again just made her hotter and more excited. Her husband was just horrified.

"Miranda, if you won't go back on the pill, I'm going to use condoms."

"But, darling, I want to get pregnant; I want to have our baby."

"Miranda, when I saw you in that ER bed, blood staining the sheets, I could have killed myself. You are the most wonderful person who has ever come into my life and I put you through all that pain and distress. It was like I'd abused you, beaten you up, and I'm scared of doing it to you again."

"No, no, love, listen to me. Firstly, it was actually an accident and secondly, however much you love me, you can't blame yourself in any way for what happened. If my body rejected the pregnancy, it's my problem, not yours."

Somewhat spitefully, she added, "I've gotten over the horrible, awful shock and moved on. Why can't you? You didn't have to go through it."

Always, when they went down this same road, they both ended up shouting and crying at the same time; both lost in a mental prison that stopped minds reaching out to understand. Miranda knew she was being unfair. She loved him and, more than life itself, didn't want to hurt this sweet man, her husband.

Why couldn't she make him see? Why couldn't she stop him going off to sleep in the guest bedroom every night? She hated herself but couldn't see how to change things.

The following Valentine's Day he had left. At the time neither of the two tormented souls had paid much attention to the calendar. The anniversary of their marriage and their loss had affected them in different ways but had, inevitably, ended in a typical catfight.

The magic, the romantic love, the erotic pleasure in each other's body had completely gone; destroyed by their totally different reactions to the unexpected life that wasn't to be. As he left, he had told her that he was scared he might really hurt her if he stayed.

Now the concatenation of good and bad times drove Miranda into the depths of despair on this most romantic of days.

He had gone: changed city, changed state and left everything to be handled by an impervious, anonymous lawyer. That's what had hurt so much. Not the divorce settlement -- he had been so much more than generous.

To this day, she couldn't bring herself to utter his name. She had come to hate him intensely as she couldn't understand the way he had let go of the life raft to leave her holding on alone.

Even now, she thought, he was probably buying flowers and champagne for his latest conquest.

Perhaps she wasn't being fair. No, no, she told herself, three years mourning is more than enough. Today was a final, cathartic, farewell. It was time to throw away the widow's weeds. She had to move on, join the world again and find someone new to make a life with.

She had to close the chapter and start afresh. Just, she didn't know where on earth to begin.

* * * *

"Err, hi, is it OK if I sit here?"

Torn out of her anguished reverie, Miranda looked up in blank amazement, gesturing at the deserted park and the zillions of empty benches standing up like stalagmites in the frozen wasteland.

The handsome, blond haired man shrugged his shoulders as his lips and blue eyes beamed an apologetic smile of massive proportions.

"I came out for a bit of a personal timeout; to think about things. In this appalling weather, I never expected anyone else to be crazy enough to be on the Common.

"Now, well, actually, I think I would prefer a bit of human company and distraction, if that's OK with you."

Miranda was dumbstruck. The dark-blue Burberry overcoat and scarf couldn't fully hide the immaculate white dress shirt and gray silk tie. The creases on the dark dress pants were sharp enough to cut ice and rested neatly on the gleaming, black, Oxford leather shoes.

It must be incipient hypothermia, she thought. She was having delusions. Surely no-one would be out in this abandoned, Siberian tundra dressed as if he should be striding into one of those plush steel and dark-glass skyscrapers in the business district?

Another random thought suddenly crossed her mind from somewhere. Perhaps Valentine's Day was really special and her yearning to meet someone new had been heard by the Cupid Express Park Delivery Service. Nah, life had never been that easy.

"Err, no, hi, please sit down. I'm just about going if you don't mind."

"Please don't go on my account." The well-dressed man smiled beguilingly as he took his place beside her. "If you can spare the time, I really would like some company. Hotel existence is such a bummer."

"Oh, yeah?" The sudden sarcasm in Miranda's voice was more chilling than the frozen air. "It's really tough having a myriad of underpaid flunkeys on call to meet your every need. I suppose you're staying at the Ritz-Carlton across the road?"

"Yes, err, yes, you're right," the man seemed suddenly discomfited, "But I wasn't talking about luxury -- even bought luxury -- just the soulless impersonality of living out of a suitcase. Today, when everyone's mind is on love and relationships, being alone seems so much worse.

"D'you know, I've just about reached the point where I'd like to come back at night and find an unmade bed or an unwashed coffee cup."

Miranda smiled, not cynically, but with genuine understanding.

"Sorry, I do understand, really. I'm just having a bad hair day.

"I think it's a case of the grass is always greener. If I could live for a while knowing my apartment was always going to be clean and tidy when I got home from work, I don't think I'd call it 'a bummer'."

"But you come back to nobody but yourself. Without a girlfriend, there is no-one even to call."

"Same for me," said Miranda. "Not, not a girlfriend, I mean, but I still have to clear up alone.

As they both laughed, the tension was broken and barriers could almost be heard falling. There is nothing as effective as kindly ridicule to be the catalyst for friendship.

They began to talk and were soon opening windows on their souls that both had kept protectively hidden for years. Despite the chill, Miranda could almost feel her heart warming as she spoke honestly, for the first time, of her fears and her deep-felt pain and loss.

It was much more than getting acquainted. Miranda was talking about things that had been lying frozen in her soul for years. She wanted time to stand still forever. It had been so long since she had felt so free to open her soul and suddenly she felt scared as she saw her companion look at his watch. No, she screamed silently, it can't end like this.

"Miranda, look, I'm so sorry -- all that's in me wants to stay in this godforsaken place and talk all day with you, but I can't. I've got to give a strategy presentation to the executive vice-presidents in an hour and my laptop and notes are in the 'bummer' hotel. Is there... can I ... err -- I mean. . ."

Miranda's female survival instincts were on red alert.

"No, look, if hotel life is such a bummer, would you like to come round to my place for dinner tonight?"

"Miranda, I'd love to."

"Don't get any crazy ideas. I've really enjoyed our chat today and I'd like to talk more and get to know you better. Just buddies, OK? If not, then you needn't accept."

"Miranda, my word is my bond. I would love to have some friendly company and some home-cooked food, and I promise to behave myself. I'm almost house-trained you know".

The woman scribbled her address and cell number on the back of a card and handed it to him saying, "Is around seven OK for you?"

As he took the card, he raised her hand to his lips and lightly kissed her gloved fingers and said, "Your wish is my command, Princess."

Miranda watched the retreating man and began to wonder if she had made a stupid mistake. No man had been in her small apartment on his own. She had not been alone at home with a man since the divorce.

She wondered if she was ready to take this major step, then told herself that she had known she had to move on -- wasn't this moving on?