The Last Mrs. Parrish(68)

Jackson faded to the background, and all my time and energy was focused on Tallulah. That morning, I’d pulled the scale out from under the vanity, thrown my robe off, and stepped on—139. I stared at the number in shock. I heard the door open, and he was standing there, looking at me with a strange expression on his face. I went to step off, but he put a hand up, walked toward me, and peered over my shoulder. A look of disgust crossed his face so quickly that I almost missed it. He reached out and patted my stomach, raising his eyebrows.

“Shouldn’t this be flat by now?”

I felt the color rush to my face as shame filled me. Stepping off the scale, I grabbed my robe from the floor and threw it on. “Why don’t you try having a baby and see how your stomach looks?”

He shook his head. “It’s been four months, Daph. Can’t use that excuse anymore. I see lots of your friends at the club in their tight jeans. They’ve all had kids too.”

“They probably all had tummy tucks after their C-sections too,” I shot back.

He took my face in his hands. “Don’t get defensive. You don’t need a tummy tuck. You just need some discipline. I married a size four, and I expect you to get back into all those expensive clothes I’ve bought you. Come on.” He took my hand and led me to the love seat in the corner of our bedroom suite. “Sit down and listen.”

He put an arm around my shoulder and took a place next to me on the love seat.

“I’m going to help you. You need accountability.” Then he pulled out a journal.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I picked it up for you a few weeks ago.” Flashing a smile, he continued. “I want you to weigh yourself every day and write it here. Then write down what you’ve eaten in the food journal part here.” He pointed to the page. “I’ll check it every night when I get home.”

I couldn’t believe it. He’d been holding on to this for weeks now? I wanted to curl up and die. Yes, I still wasn’t back to my pre-baby weight, but I wasn’t fat.

I looked at him, afraid to ask but needing to know. “Do you find me unattractive?”

“Can you blame me? You haven’t worked out in months.”

I held back the tears and bit my lip. “I’m tired, Jackson. I’m up with the baby in the middle of the night, I’m tired in the morning.”

He covered my hand with his. “That’s why I keep telling you to let me hire a full-time baby nurse.”

“I cherish that time with her. I don’t want a stranger here at night.”

He stood up, anger in his eyes. “You’ve done it for months, and look where it’s gotten you. At this rate, you’ll be as big as a house. I want my wife back. I’m calling the service today and getting a nurse here. You will sleep through the nights again and have your mornings back. I insist.”

“But I’m nursing.”

He sighed. “Yeah, that’s another thing. It’s disgusting. Your breasts are like two overblown balloons. I don’t want your tits hanging to the floor. Enough is enough.”

I stood on shaky legs, nausea overtaking me, and ran to the bathroom. How could he be so cruel? I took my robe off again and examined myself in the full-length mirror. Why hadn’t I noticed all that cellulite before? I took a hand and swiped at it on one of my thighs. Like jelly. Pushing both hands on my stomach was like kneading dough. He was right. I turned around and looked over my shoulder, my eyes drawn to the dimpling in my buttocks. I had to fix this. It was time to return to the gym. My eyes rested on the breasts my husband found disgusting. I swallowed the lump in my throat, got dressed, and went downstairs. Picking up the grocery list sitting on the counter, I added another item: formula.

Margarita had prepared a breakfast buffet that morning to rival the Ritz. When Jackson came in, he filled his plate to overflowing with pancakes, bacon, strawberries, and a homemade muffin. I thought about the journal he’d just given me and felt the heat spread to my face. He was crazy if he thought I’d have him dictating what I ate. I’d start my diet tomorrow and on my own terms. I grabbed a plate and picked up the fork on the pancake platter, ready to take one, when he cleared his throat. I looked over at him. He inclined his head ever so slightly toward the fruit platter. I took a deep breath, stabbed three pancakes with my fork, and dropped them onto my plate. Ignoring him, I grabbed the syrup and poured until they were swimming in it. As I lifted the fork, I held his gaze as I stuffed a fluffy slice of pancake slathered in syrup into my mouth.





Forty-Four




I paid for my little act of rebellion. Not right away, because that wasn’t his style. By the time he executed his plan three weeks later, I had nearly forgotten about it. But he hadn’t. My mother was coming for a visit. After my father died, she came often—every few months—and I encouraged her visits. The night before she was due to arrive, he exacted his revenge. He waited until Tallulah had been put down and came into the kitchen, where I was talking to Margarita about the menu for dinner the next night. He was standing in the archway, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, with an amused expression on his face. When she left, he walked over to me, pushed a lock of hair from my forehead, then leaned down to whisper in my ear.

“She’s not coming.”

“What?” My stomach turned to jelly.