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it had never known light.
Friends had told me that when you try to conceive, you have either lots more sex or lots less. You can go at it all the time, the way a shotgun sprays its pellets everywhere in the hope of hitting something. Or you can strike strategically, saving your ammunition for the appropriate moment.
To start with, Rick and I went for the first approach. When he got home from work we made love before dinner. We went to bed early, woke up early to do it, fit it in whenever we could.
Rick loved this abundance, but for me it was different. For one thing, I'd never had sex because I felt I had to – it had always been because I wanted to. Now, though, there was an unspoken mission behind the activity that made it feel deliberate and calculated. I was also ambivalent about not using contraception: all the energy I'd put into prevention over the years, all the lessons and caution drilled into me – were they to be tossed away in a moment? I'd heard that this could be a great turn-on, but I felt fear when I'd expected exhilaration.
Above all, I was exhausted. I was sleeping badly, dragged into a room of blue each night. I didn't say anything to Rick, never woke him or explained the next day why I was so tired. Usually I told him everything; now there was a block in my throat and a lock on my lips.
One night I was lying in bed, staring at the blue dancing above me, when it finally dawned on me: the only two nights I hadn't had the dream in the last ten days were when we hadn't had sex.
Part of me was relieved to make that connection, to be able to explain it: I was anxious about conceiving, and that was bringing on the nightmare. Knowing that made it a little less frightening.
Still, I needed sleep; I had to convince Rick to cut down on sex without explaining why. I couldn't bring myself to tell him I had nightmares after he made love to me.
Instead, when my period came and it was clear we hadn't conceived, I suggested to Rick that we try the strategic approach. I used every textbook argument I knew, threw in some technical words and tried to be cheerful. He was disappointed but gave in gracefully.
‘You know more about this than me,’ he said. ‘I'm just the hired gun. You tell me what to do.’
Unfortunately, though the dream came less frequently, the damage had been done: I found it harder to sleep deeply, and often lay awake in a state of non-specific anxiety, waiting for the blue, thinking that some night it would return anyway, unaccompanied by sex.
One night – a strategic night – Rick was kissing his way from my shoulder down my arm when he paused. I could feel his lips hovering above the crease in my arm. I waited but he didn't continue. ‘Um, Ella,’ he said at last. I opened my eyes. He was staring at the crease; as my eyes followed his gaze my arm jerked away from him.
‘Oh,’ I said simply. I studied the circle of red, scaly skin.
‘What is it?’
‘Psoriasis. I had it once, when I was thirteen. When Mom and Dad divorced.’
Rick looked at it, then leaned over and kissed my eyelids shut.
When I opened my eyes again I just caught a flicker of distaste cross his face before he controlled himself and smiled at me.
Over the next week I watched helplessly as the original patch widened, then jumped to my other arm and both elbows. It would reach my ankles and calves soon.
At Rick's insistence I went to see a doctor. He was young and brusque, lacking the patter American doctors use to soften up their patients. I had to concentrate hard on his rapid French.
‘You have had this before?’ he asked as he studied my arms.
‘Yes, when I was young.’
‘But not since?’
‘No.’
‘How long have you been in France?’
‘Six weeks.’
‘And you will stay?’
‘Yes, for a few years. My husband has a job with an architectural firm in Toulouse.’
‘You have children?’
‘No. Not yet.’ I turned red. Pull yourself together, Ella, I thought. You're twenty-eight years old, you don't have to be