by Iris Trovao
He took a deep breath, wrapped his clammy fingers around the door handle, and pulled. He gathered his things at a sloth’s pace, checking every pocket of his messenger bag and clutching his keys with white knuckles.
Why am I so nervous? It’s my own damn wife, he berated himself. They’d fallen into a routine of avoiding each other, and it felt strange to not do it. He also couldn’t shake the guilt cinching his neck like a noose.
Talking to another woman wasn’t wrong, but it didn’t feel exactly innocent. And even though he knew for a fact that Gina was unfaithful, it didn’t make it okay for him to do it back.
He crept into the house, hanging up his things and moving silently into the kitchen.
He froze at the sight of her, sitting at the kitchen island, hands wrapped around a mug. Her long, ebony tresses hung loose down her back, a far cry from her usual severe bun at the nape of her neck. She had her legs crossed and wore a simple pair of yoga pants and a tank top. He hadn’t seen her so dressed down in what felt like years.
The soothing scent of chamomile hung in the air and Carson’s brow furrowed.
“You’re not drinking coffee.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, and he closed his eyes. Hello, he could have said. Hi, how are you? A greeting. Anything.
“We need to talk,” she said, without looking up from her tea.
The words sliced through him like a knife. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He approached the island as if it were a live bomb, and pulled out one of the stools. The swish of the legs against the tiles seemed to echo forever, too loud for the somber space.
Still, she wouldn’t meet his gaze. He studied her profile, the bags under her eyes, the taut clench of her jaw. He tried to conjure an image of her smiling, smiling at him, with love in her eyes. How long had it been?
He waited for the pain, that heart-clenching ache in his chest that throbbed whenever he was close to her these days. Somehow, it hadn’t hit him yet. He stared at her intently, unsure of what to say, of what exactly she wanted to speak about, anxiety clawing the back of his neck, but that familiar pain wasn’t present.
He couldn’t remember what her genuine smile towards him looked like anymore. When he thought hard about it, it was like a fading photograph in his head, a ghostly image of something long gone.
She pressed her lips into a thin line, and he had no idea how she’d managed to become even more tense than she’d been when he walked in.
Then it happened.
A sudden cold slapped him in the face, as if someone had tossed a bucket of ice water at him. “You’re not drinking coffee,” he repeated, voice hoarse.
Gina licked her lips, drawing in a deep breath, and fingered the tag of the tea bag with her perfectly manicured nails. “I’m pregnant.”
Chapter Seventeen
My husband is in a coma, Jolie typed, and then erased it.
I confronted my husband and then left him to get into a car accident alone, she typed, and then erased it.
I wonder if I’m sitting in the same hospital as you right now, she typed, and then erased it.
“Who are you talking to?” Alicia asked through a yawn, rubbing her eyes from across John’s bed.
Jolie pocketed her phone and rested her elbows on her knees. Nobody, she wanted to say. I don’t deserve to talk to anybody.
“You should get some sleep,” she said instead.
Alicia jutted out her chin. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
“You look like shit,” Jolie insisted, her chest constricting at the hurt look on her best friend’s face. “It’s been three days since you’ve been home. The doctor said—”
“I don’t care what the doctor said!” Alicia snapped, reaching out and gripping the death-grey blanket on top of her brother’s still form. “He’s going to wake up, and I’m going to be here when he does.”
Jolie tongued the inside of her cheek. “You can’t…” She swallowed hard. “You can’t just put your life on hold like this. Your job—”
“Is that why you haven’t been here?” The venom in her best friend’s voice hit her like acid, rotting her body from the inside out. “Because you don’t want to put your life on hold? Oh, I forgot, you don’t have a fucking life. Go back to the bar.”
Ouch. Jolie wanted to argue with her, wanted to fight. But she was exhausted, and the other woman wasn’t wrong.
The truth was, she hadn’t been there because she couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t look at his battered body hooked up to life support, purple and black bruises split by angry red cuts. She couldn’t bear to listen to the heart monitor declaring that yes, he was still alive, but there was nothing firing in his brain.
She couldn’t sit there, next to him, holding his hand and speaking lovingly to the man she’d destroyed. I did this to him. I did this to him and everyone is suffering.
It took every ounce of her willpower not to get up and stagger off to the bar like Alicia had suggested. Her friend was right. It had been all she did, and these days it was worse even. She didn’t even remember the night before. She’d woken up in her bed with no recollection of how she’d even gotten home.
She should have been scared, but the only thought when she’d opened her eyes was that she wished she hadn’t.
And now her best friend was sitting there, every day, waiting for her brother to wake up. And Jolie wasn’t. Because the doctors said he wasn’t going to wake up. They said he was braindead. They said nothing was happening in there. That even if he did by some miracle wake up, he wouldn’t even be able to move.
Lacerations, pressure, traumatic brain injury, oh my… She rubbed her temples with her fingertips, hard enough that it made her head spin. Or had her head already been spinning?
“Dad wants to kill him.” Alicia’s voice was barely above a whisper, her cheeks glittering with tears in the harsh fluorescent lighting.
He’s already dead, Jolie wanted to say, but she bit her tongue. Mr. Hill was a practical man, a business man. And he wanted to pull the plug, as he’d said so emotionlessly, because this was no way to live.
Alicia and Mrs. Hill opposed him. They were convinced he was going to wake up. That the doctors were wrong, that it would all be okay.
Jolie didn’t know what to think.
So she drank.
Janos: Where you been, doll? Not offended you skipped out on baking fun but not even a coffee? You okay?
Jolie tongued her cheek as she read the message. She hadn’t wanted to face Janos. He’d have known right away that something was wrong, and she didn’t want to have to tell him she’d killed her husband.
Guilt plucked at her chest when she realized she’d been disappointed the text was from Janos and not the faceless doctor. She hadn’t heard from Dr. Tweedledick since the night of the accident. It was as if he knew, somehow—sensed the crazy and just disappeared.
Granted, she hadn’t messaged him either. Clearly, she didn’t know what to say. Should she tell him what’s going on? Should she unload all of her deepest darkest thoughts on him? Or just say hey, sup and use him as a distraction from her disfigured life?
Decisions, decisions, she thought bitterly with a sigh.
I’m alive, she typed out in a response to Janos. Even though it felt like a lie, she hit send. Just dealing with some shit, she added.
Janos: Here if you need anything, doll. Let me know whose ass I gotta beat.
She snorted, and Alicia immediately huffed.
“Who the fuck are you talking to?” she snapped.
Jolie pursed her lips, wiping away her brief smile. “It’s Janos,” she said. “Just wondering why we haven’t been by in a while.”
Alicia closed her eyes, taking in a deep, ragged breath. “I could go for a mocha.” She rubbed furiously under her eyes, pallid skin raw and red. “With whipped cream. And like all the espresso.”
Jolie held her breath. She didn’t know whether to offer to go, or tell Alicia to go. Her bestie definitely needed some f
resh air. And a shower. And food that wasn’t made in the hospital cafeteria.
“Will you go?” Alicia asked hoarsely. “I can’t see Janos like this.”
Jolie nodded and got to her feet. “When I get back…” She chewed the inside of her cheek. “I’ll stay here with John so you can go home for a bit.”
“But what if he wakes up and I'm not here?” The sheer agony in her voice cut through Jolie’s blackened heart like razor blades.
“I promise I'll call you right away if that happens.” But it's not going to happen.
Alicia curled her legs up into her seat, bringing her thumbnail to her mouth. She clamped her teeth down on her still-perfect hot pink acrylic nail, and Jolie winced. She hadn’t seen her best friend chew her nails since high school.
“I'll go get us coffee.”
Alicia had finally gone home. Jolie sat vigil, having taken up the comfy plush recliner her best friend had vacated next to John’s bed.
She wrapped her hands around her paper cup, the half-empty cinnamon bun latte mostly cooled at this point. Her stomach gurgled as it tried to process the hot milk and sugar syrup with zero other sustenance. She stared at the shit-brown plastic lid as if it were the cause of her body’s woes.
Slowly, she bucked up, and raised her eyes to finally look at her broken husband.
She thought she’d cry. She thought she’d feel her heart breaking. She thought she’d pine for the love they once shared.
Instead, it felt like someone had punched her in the gut. Maybe right through the flesh, gripping her stomach with a cold fist and tearing it right out of her body.
The steamed milk turned sour inside her, churning and roiling, and before she could swallow it back, sickly sweet bile burst everywhere. She pitched forward, but it was too late, the splatter already covering herself and John’s blanket.
She held onto the side of the bed and just hung there, sputtering, the remnants of her ingested latte dripping in a long oozy string from her lips to the floor. The fallen cup rolled by, sloshing beige liquid along the faded mint-green floor. The coffee swirled with the vomit and her stomach heaved again, but there was nothing left.
“Mrs. Hill, are you alright?” It was a soft, feminine voice. One of the nurses.
A shiver racked Jolie's body and she couldn’t bring herself to look up at the woman, thankfully the friendly one who wouldn’t complain about cleaning up her mess. She couldn't remember her name.
“Oh dear, are you not feeling well?” the nurse continued as she approached. “You’re in the right place at least.”
“I'm good, I'm good,” Jolie said hoarsely, raising a hand above her head to keep the woman at bay. “Just having a moment.”
“Are you sure? It’s no trouble to take your temperature—”
“I don’t need you to take my fucking temperature!” Jolie snarled, her hands curling into fists. “I said I'm good!”
The nurse didn’t say anything, and after a moment her footsteps echoed as she left.
Chapter Eighteen
“Doctor Wessex?” The words were like a dream. Something far away, for some other Doctor, some other Carson in another world. “Doctor Wessex!”
He blinked a few times and looked up at Patricia. Her brow knitted together with concern, and she tongued her cheek. He’d seen that look before. It was the concerned mom look. The look that Gina used to give their kids when they were little and she still wanted to be around him.
God… He rubbed his forehead and took a deep breath.
“You’ve been a space cadet for days,” she finally said. “I don’t want to pry into your personal life, but if you need to go home—”
“No, no, I’m fine,” he insisted, planting his palms on his desk and forcing himself to look up at her with as focused of an expression as he could muster. “Is there a patient for me?”
“Yes, Mrs. Brown is back with concerns about her pregnancy.” Patricia tapped a finger on her elbow as she crossed her arms, showing off the cartoon elephants on the sleeves of her scrubs. “Got a heartbeat and she’s measuring fine but she wants to book an ultrasound.”
Carson nodded. “I’ll be there in a moment.” He wondered where Gina would be having her prenatal appointments. Or giving birth. Her birth plan likely involved one of the other hospitals in the city, far away from him.
“Whatever this is,” Patricia said sternly, “it’s not good for you.”
“I am aware,” he replied, with more snark than was necessary. “I am a doctor, you know.”
She clucked her tongue, her eyes softening a touch. “You know you can talk to me, right?”
“Thank you.” He fought the urge to sigh. My wife’s been cheating on me for years and now she’s pregnant with another man’s child. How was he supposed to talk to his colleague about that?
She nodded and left, and he buried his face in his hands.
Mrs. Brown was a regular customer in the ER, coming in almost weekly to check on her pregnancy. Carson didn’t mind, though he wished she would relax and enjoy the pregnancy more. But he’d known enough first-time pregnant women to know it was hard not to be anxious about the baby.
When Gina was pregnant with Lily, he’d gotten her an at-home heart monitor so that any time she was worried she could check that there was still a heartbeat.
He groaned into his palms. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Her. The baby. What were they going to do? As if on cue, his phone buzzed.
She’d been trying to get him to sit down with her since she told him about the pregnancy. He’d been strategically avoiding her. He wasn’t ready for a divorce. He supposed he should have been, for so many reasons, but after such a huge bomb dropped on him, it was a conversation he really didn’t want to have.
Gina: You can’t keep avoiding me, Carson, we need to make plans.
Plans, he thought bitterly. He didn’t want to make plans. He knew he had to, but he didn’t want to.
He ran his thumb across the side of his phone, staring at his text message inbox. Guilt rippled through his gut…guilt that every time his wife texted him, he wished it was Jane.
She hadn’t messaged him since the night he’d found out about Gina. It was almost as if she’d pulled away from the drama instinctively. He’d almost talked to her about it, in the initial aftermath, but refrained. Jane already knew enough about his pathetic life—she didn’t need to be burdened with something like this.
It didn’t stop him from wishing that she was still idly chatting with him, though. He’d considered sending a casual message, just a hello, anything…but didn’t want to be the one to drag her out of her life just to distract him.
Another part of him worried about her. She seemed to spend so much time wallowing and drinking, and generally messaged him while completely wasted. What if something had happened to her over the past few days, and that was why she was MIA? But what was he supposed to do, message her Hey, just checking to see if you’re alive like some creepy clinger?
He put his phone to sleep and slipped it into his pocket. He needed to go see Mrs. Brown before she got too anxious.
When Gina’s car wasn’t in the garage at home, Carson breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been half-expecting her to be waiting for him, knowing he’d have to come home sometime. Thankfully she still had her work to take care of, and couldn’t spend all day trying to corner him.
He entered the house and shed his coat, dropping his messenger bag and heading for the kitchen for tea.
“I was going to make it for you,” Gina said from behind him, and he startled, whipping around with wide eyes. “But I wanted to be able to block your exit.”
Carson bit his tongue, unsure of what to do. Here they were again—in the kitchen in which they’d raised their family—at a standoff.
“We need to talk,” she said, crossing her arms primly. “I’ve given you a few days to process, but we need to figure this out sooner rather than later.”
He swallowed the golf ball in his throat, hand
s clenched at his sides. He wanted to run. But he knew he couldn’t.
He nodded in defeat, not trusting his voice, and grabbed the kettle to fill it with water. At least the girls weren’t home to potentially overhear whatever this was about to be.
“We both have commitments, to our jobs,” she continued, perching on one of the island stools. “Our image.”
Image. Electricity shot up Carson’s spine, the hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention. A block of ice formed in his stomach at the realization that this conversation wasn’t going to go as he’d anticipated.
It was going to be worse.
“It’s too late in the pregnancy to be able to cultivate a public image with Thad—”
“Thad?” Carson exploded, slamming the kettle down on the stove. “His name is Thad?”
To her credit, she didn’t even flinch, simply raised a perfectly sculpted brow and continued, “If we were to separate now, all the attention will be on the single mother. Even if I started easing Thad into the spotlight as my boyfriend, anyone watching my pregnancy will be able to track it back to before we separated.”
Separate. Carson fell backwards against the counter, the marble digging into his lower back like a blade. Separated. What a soft, easy way to say it. His mind hyper-focused on this to avoid what he knew was coming next.
“So, I think we need to continue as a united front.” Gina folded her hands in front of her on the island, straightening her shoulders. “If everyone thinks it’s your baby, then there’s no scandal.”
He was sure his heart stopped for a moment. Imagining what it would be like to keep such a secret. What he would have to do to keep up the facade. What this Thad would have to do.
“What about the baby?” he rasped, voice thick and hoarse. “It deserves to be with the father.” The real father.
She clenched her jaw so hard he was sure he could hear her teeth squeak.
“You understand that it’s not only me that would get backlash from this?” She raised her chin. “How would it look for you if everyone at the hospital was talking about—”