Lies She Told(29)

If Nick had said such things to Christine, he’d undoubtedly been saying them to David daily. Was it any wonder now, with Nick’s voice ringing in his head, that all David wanted to do was work? That he didn’t want me to continue treatments? Nick had probably convinced him that a baby was bad for business.

The drummer in my head starts a new rhythm, something ferocious and tribal like an ancient hula. I drop my forehead into my hands and try to soften the beat. Angry tears spill from the corners of my eyes.

“Hey, don’t get upset. Nick was being an ass. I mean, David’s his best friend, right? He couldn’t shoulder the load for a few months?”

Chris comes around the table and crouches beside my chair. She drapes an arm around my shoulder. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No. I’m glad you did.” I sniff and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “And I know it’s horrible to say, but I’m glad Nick’s gone.”





Chapter 7

I tell my mom that Jake and I are having a long-overdue date night. She doesn’t believe me. Doubt restrains her smile as she stands in the doorway to the clapboard Cape Cod where I grew up, trying to make direct eye contact after asking how parenthood is treating “you two.”

“It’ll be good to have time together,” I say, pushing Vicky’s stroller past her waiting hug. On my shoulder hangs a massive bag stuffed with backup onesies, bottles, and bags of frozen breast milk. I drop it on her plaid couch and then remove the milk pouches as my mother takes her granddaughter from the stroller.

“Hello, Vicky-boo. Are you ready to spend the night with Nana? Huh, baby? Spend the night with Nana?”

I carry the milk through the small dining room into the adjacent kitchen. The floor is black-and-white-checked linoleum, a design so old that it’s become fashionable again. My mother has also held onto the retro-chic fridge of my childhood, an ancient white box with an attached freezer a little bigger than a beach bag. I lay my baby’s food atop a pack of chicken breasts encased in snow-covered plastic.

“I’m leaving you with forty ounces,” I shout as I reenter the living room.

“You look nice. Where are you going?” Though she calls out the question between coos at her granddaughter, I recognize when my mother is fishing. She’s searching for clues as to why I asked her last minute to watch Vicky, why I nearly begged that she reschedule her girls’ dinner with the neighbor. My urgency would make sense if, say, Jake scored concert tickets.

“You can’t defrost the milk in the microwave. It needs to be put in a hot water bath for five minutes, until it reaches room temperature. Microwaving kills all the good nutrients.”

“Please, Beth. I know how to heat up breast milk.” Again, she tries to make me look at her. “Is anything wrong?”

The little girl inside me wants to bury my face on her tiny shoulder and unload my entire burden. My better self strangles her. I take Vicky from my mom’s arms and kiss her forehead. She smiles, or at least gives me an infant’s best approximation of one. Her sapphire eyes glitter. Though Vicky’s irises are darker than her dad’s, her lids have his downturned shape. If we end things tonight, will I ever be able to look at her and not see him?

“Mommy will be back tomorrow,” I whisper. “I love you more than life.”

A hand lands on my upper arm. The lines on my mom’s brow deepen. “Beth, is everything all right?”

I hand her my baby. “I’m sorry. I’m in a hurry. Zipcar charges by the hour.”

She searches my face for something more. I gesture to the bag and start detailing everything inside, an attempt to overload her mother-radar. It’s not working. I can tell by her erect posture. The way she looks at me rather than at the bag from which I frantically pull out bottles, needlessly explaining how to ensure nipples don’t mold.

As I’m heading out the door, she tries one last time. “Are you sure nothing is wrong?”

I throw up my hands. “I’m a new mom.”

She gives me a wistful smile, as though that explains everything.




*


It’s 6:20 when I enter. For the next half hour, I wait, huddled on our living room couch like a crouching tiger, ready to pounce the moment Jake walks through the door. He calls at seven sharp. I hold my breath as I answer my cell and shut my eyes tight, praying that he’ll tell me he’s on his way.

“Um . . . Beth.”

Coward. I want to unleash the word with an onslaught of expletives. I want to scream that I know he’s about to lie, that he’s not working late, that his girlfriend is pissed off because he was affectionate toward me and that she probably gave him an ultimatum about seeing her tonight. I want to reveal that I know everything. I am not a fool. I am not hormonal. I am not crazy.

“Why aren’t you here?”

“It’s work. I’m so sorry, hon. This upcoming case is taking so much time, and every time I think I have a handle on it, something new shows up in discovery that changes my whole strategy.”

“My mother is watching Vicky.”

“I know, babe. But there’s no way I’m going to be able to make it home at a reasonable hour. I’ll be stuck here all night.”

“You said we could talk. Why can’t you work late tomorrow?”