The Girl He Loves

by Carmen, Roya

  When I was finally dilated ten cm and it was time to push, Brian held my hand. “You can do this,” he whispered in my ear. An old episode of Friends was playing on the small TV hooked up to the ceiling. For some reason, I didn’t focus on Brian, I just focused on Rachel and Ross and the gang. They were an alternate reality, and I needed to be anywhere but where I was at the time. It was the episode where Marcel, the monkey, poops in Monica’s shoe, and even though I’d never been more terrified, I smiled at their shenanigans.

  Trevor scared us for a second. He didn’t cry at first, and the nurses whisked him away, frantic. Brian and I both turned our heads to see what was going on, scared shitless. A second later, we heard his cry and everything was fine. When the delivery nurse handed him to me, he seemed so alert. He was the most beautiful little soul in the world. He was motionless in my arms, but his eyes were shifty, as if he was wondering where the heck he was, and what had happened to his dark comfy womb.

  He was everything a mother could ask for; sweet, adorable and healthy. He wasn’t a wailer, but he was fussy at the breast. He just refused to latch on, and my breasts were so achy, a leaky mess. “He doesn’t like the breast,” I remember telling Brian, full of concern.

  “Well, that’s not my son,” Brian joked, making light of the situation.

  “It’s not fucking funny, Brian,” I scoffed at him. “If he doesn’t eat, he dies.” Brian froze, shocked by my reaction, and I fell into sobs.

  In my defense, I was chock-full of hormones and exhausted. A nurse standing by came to my side. She was a tiny woman, four foot ten tops. She had the sweet face of an angel. “We can help,” she offered. “Give him the bottle as we work on getting him on the breast. This happens all the time,” she reassured me. “We have a lactation specialist… she’s very good.”

  Trevor and I ended up staying an extra day at the hospital so we could get help breastfeeding. Once he finally took the breast, we were released and the staff congratulated us once more and wished us luck. I remember not wanting to leave, feeling so empty and tired and helpless. How was I going to do this without their help?

  Brian had taken a few days leave to be there for me, but once he had to go back to work, I felt so overwhelmed, so low. I was convinced that I was just not meant to be a mother, that I had made a grave mistake. I should have been filled with joy, but all I wanted was to escape my life. I cried all the time, I slept as much as I could, and I could barely eat.

  Brian ended up taking a leave from work to be there for me. With the help of medication and the support of his family, we got through it. He and his mom helped with Trevor. They also made the meals and cleaned up the house. All the while, I wondered if Gina thought her son could have done better, but she never let on. She always had a smile on her face and a reassuring word.

  The depression lasted about four months, and it was like the flick of a switch. Suddenly, I saw the joy in my beautiful son; his sweet gummy smile, his little belly giggles. I loved to watch him stretch his little head to observe his surroundings, recognizing those around him and reacting to the world. Suddenly, he was a little person, a person I loved more than life itself.

  * * *

  Those Louboutins are calling to me, after all. I have no idea when I’ll ever wear them. They’re too glitzy for everyday wear, and Brian and I never go anywhere anymore. But they’d look fabulous paired with ripped skinny jeans and my old Nirvana t-shirt. Brian and I could go out for a date night… and perhaps, talk.

  I know I shouldn’t. I should stay away from all three of them. Should I forget all about Ava? Forget that I’ve ever discovered her existence? I still don’t know for certain if she really is Brian’s. But how can she not be? Her photo was hidden in a frame in our bedroom. His Facebook history is full of her. She looks exactly like him. And nineteen years ago, her mother’s path crossed Brian’s. She has to be.

  I’m fascinated with this woman; the one who stole Joel’s heart. The one who stole Brian’s too, perhaps just for a night. Even without our shared history, I’d still be enamored with her — she is what Hollywood starlets are made of; beautiful, glamorous, sexy, and perfect.

  I’d compare myself to her, but she and I are so completely different, it’s almost impossible to. I wonder if Joel could possibly be attracted to me, when he comes home to her. I’m probably just imagining everything when it comes to Joel and I, as I tend to do, as I’ve done in the past.

  I’ve dressed stylishly today; ripped American Eagle jeans, a silk top, and sparkly Steve Madden booties. My hair is down. I want Renee to approve. I want her to think I’m stylish, that I’m someone who could be her friend, who could shoot the breeze over cosmos or margaritas or whatever cocktails hip women drink when they go out with their girlfriends. Me and my friends mostly drink tea or coffee at each other’s apartments, because we don’t have the time or money or inclination to go out to bars. And we’re just not as cool as Renee.

  When I finally get to Renee’s shop, following a not-so-pleasant bus ride, I’m thrilled to see two women walking in. I nip at their heels, and I feel inconspicuous as I hide behind them and slip into the shop. Renee is nowhere in sight. There’s a man at the counter — a handsome silver fox, the same one I saw on her Facebook feed.

  I head straight for the skirts. Skirts are my go-to when I want to dress up a little. I flip through them and I’m pleased by the fact that they are organized by color and pattern. There’s a wide selection of black ones, and when I spot an A-line leather skirt, I pull it out.

  All the while, I’m scanning the space, looking for her. Perhaps, she’s not in today. The thought of that upsets me. I’ve come all the way to catch a glimpse of her, perhaps get a chance to talk to her. There are five of us shopping, including myself and the two women who came in before me. It’s a lot busier than it was last time.

  I check the waistline on the skirt and press it against myself. The hem falls just above the knee — looks like a perfect fit. I continue skimming the racks leisurely; skirts, tops, capris…

  My breath hitches when I see Renee come in from the back. She’s saying something to the silver fox. I don’t catch anything, save for his name. Grant.

  My heart pounds as I venture closer, three items of clothing draped over my arm, my handbag over my shoulder — I’m just another fashionista indulging in a little shopping.

  Oh, how I wish that were true. Unfortunately, I’m so much more complicated than that.

  The two women who came in just before me are very yappy. I hear their entire conversation without really wanting to. Apparently, the brunette’s daughter is dating a boy she doesn’t approve of. She’s sure he’ll break her heart. Her friend tells her she should just let her be a young girl in love, that everyone needs to face heartbreak at one point or another.

  No, they don’t, I want to say. Of course I don’t utter a word. Her daughter will probably end up pregnant and dumped.

  I’ve moved on to the handbags. I already have about a million of them, and the last thing I need is another purse. But standing here allows for a much better view of Renee. She’s still chatting with Grant, and he smiles warmly at her. He has nice blue eyes and a charming playful grin. When he walks by her, he presses a hand on her hip, and it lingers there. She doesn’t react at all, she doesn’t object. It’s the touch of a lover — there’s no mistaking it. It’s a passing moment between two people who know each other very well.

  My pulse races as I tear my gaze away and focus on the dusty rose Nine West hand bag in my hands. I pretend to be fascinated by the gold chain handles and the stitching. Could Renee be having an affair? Could their marriage be in trouble? Or am I just imagining what I want to be real? Dr. Russell and I have discussed this at length — it’s so easy to see things that aren’t there if we desperately want them to be.

  I shake my head, and pad slowly to the jewelry section. A gorgeous Betsey Johnson necklace catches my eye and I study its details for a long moment; pearls, pretty sparkly charms. It’s only ten do
llars.

  I’ve been here about ten minutes now, and she still hasn’t noticed me. I consider throwing the items back on a rack, and quietly sneaking out of there. Just as I’m considering the logistics of this, she finally spots me.

  Her reaction is not at all what I’d imagined. There’s no friendly smile, no expression of fond recollection. She eyes me with confusion, with suspicion.

  I’m breathless, but determined to appear as normal as possible. “Oh, hello again,” I say as I near the counter. “Nice to see you again.”

  She nods and forces a smile. “How can we help you today?”

  “Oh, I just came in… I had my eye on those sparkly Louboutins I saw on your Instagram,” I explain. My gaze darts past her to the shelving on the wall — it’s where all the high end designer handbags and shoes are kept, secure behind the cash. “They’re size seven, right?”

  She turns to them. “Yes.” The sheer sleeves of her flowy top sway as she reaches for them — they are kept up high on the top shelf, but being so tall, she reaches them easily. I admire her long lean frame as she fetches them.

  She brings them to the counter. “The soles are a little scuffed, but other than that, they’re in mint condition, but there’s no box. Still a great deal for Black Diamond Christian Louboutins. They’re 100 mm… very comfy, I was told.”

  “Yes, they’re beautiful.” I’ve never bought previously worn shoes before, and the thought of it makes me a little uneasy. Yet, I’ve always wanted Louboutins and never had the heart to spend a thousand dollars, when I could spend that money on the boys.

  I study them carefully, making sure there’s not a single knick on them. She was right — in mint condition. I slide my finger along the red sole and picture myself in them.

  “Or maybe you’d prefer those.” She points to the other red soled heels on the top shelf — black with scary spikes at the toes. “Those are Louboutins Asteroids… 120 mm.”

  “No.” I laugh. “I’m not woman enough for those.”

  “Or is your man not man enough?” she jokes. “Who knows… he might like you in those. They’re size seven too.”

  I shake my head. “No, I definitely prefer these.”

  “Would you like to try them on?”

  I nod. “Sure. They probably won’t fit, but I’d like to see.”

  “Come with me,” she says as she exits the confines of the front counter. I follow her eagerly to the pretty bench by the change rooms.

  I peel off my booties and my feet are shaking as I slip the right one into the shoe. I’m pleasantly surprised by the perfect fit. I eagerly slip on the other pump.

  “Walk around,” she urges. “See if you like them.”

  I do, pacing slowly back and forth across the store as she and Grant watch me. The customer at the counter watches me too. “Those look amazing on you,” she says.

  I smile at her. “Thanks.” I feel like a million bucks, and I’m surprised by how comfortable the shoes are and how I can so easily walk in them.

  I want them. But a thought suddenly occurs to me. I don’t have enough cash. I’d have to pay with my Visa card and then she’d see my real name. Would she know the name? Would she remember the fake name I gave her last time? I could always run to a nearby ATM, and get the money.

  She takes a seat next to me on the bench. “Can I ask you a question?”

  I turn to her, curious. “Of course.”

  “When you came in last time, you gave me your name for our mailing list.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “You gave me a false name,” she deadpans.

  My breath hitches, settles in my throat, robbing my words. How could she possibly know that?

  “Why?” she asks.

  24

  “How… how do you know it’s not my real name?”

  She turns away from me. “I just know, Mischa.”

  I go into full-on panic mode; breathlessness, shakes, and an absolute inability to vocalize. I have an excuse all made up, but I can’t share it. She knows who I am.

  “It’s okay, Mischa.”

  How does she know who I am? Well, of course she does. I’m her baby daddy’s wife. Why wouldn’t I have thought of that?

  “It bothered me for days,” she says. “I knew that I knew you, but couldn’t place you. Your hair was up and you had glasses on… maybe that’s what threw me off. You look more like yourself today.”

  “How…” I finally manage to say. “How do you know me?”

  She pauses and hesitates before saying, “We met a long time ago at a party. I’m sure you don’t even remember.”

  I do.

  “I just… I just didn’t want to be bothered with sales calls,” I lie. “I get so many telemarketers already. I don’t like to give out my real information. That’s all.”

  She smiles but I can tell she’s not convinced. She studies me for a beat, and turns her gaze to our feet. “So… about those shoes. You like them?”

  I have no choice but to buy them now. “I do,” I tell her. “I’ll take them.”

  Her face lights up. “Great! And about those other items you left at the front?”

  “Yes, I’ll try those too… see what fits.”

  Following a quick five minutes in the change room and payment, I leave with a leather skirt, a pretty white blouse, and a pair of fabulous heels.

  I should have a smile on my face, but instead a heavy weight sits uncomfortably at the pit of my stomach.

  What else does Renee know about me?

  I’m wearing my best yoga pants, the patterned ones that make my butt look curvier, paired with a pink tank top. I stretch as I wait for the class to begin, as I wait for Joel to make his usual appearance. My heart is beating with anticipation as I watch the usual suspects filing in, yoga mat bags hanging over shoulders. There’s Erika, a sweet tiny older lady with a thick European accent. I’ve been meaning to ask her where she’s from, but haven’t had a chance to. There are the identical twins… about my age. And the young lean girl whose tiny waist can’t be bigger than twenty-two inches.

  My breath shallows as I wait impatiently for him. Anxiety slowly rears its ugly head — I know all the signs; an intense feeling of confusion and discomfort, the sensation of being smack in the middle of chaos and not being able to free myself. Why is he not here?

  When the class begins, I mimic Juliette’s motions. She always starts the class with graceful Tai Chi stretches, moves I’m quite familiar with. I attempt to talk some sense into myself — it’s okay if he’s not here. He never told me he’d be. I just assumed. This is not a personal affront. Perhaps he has an emergency or was not feeling well.

  What if he’s been in an accident? My pulse accelerates as we move to sun salutations. What if he’s avoiding me? Maybe he thinks this thing between us is getting too serious. Perhaps he’s ghosting me. My pulse races even faster at that thought. I shake my head as I move into downward dog. I’m being crazy again. These silly thoughts are a result of my OCD, of my neuroses. They are not rooted in reality at all. I’m overacting again. I focus on the class as we step into strength exercises. The rest of the session goes relatively well as I make a conscious effort to focus. When meditation whirls around at the end of the class, my breathing is relatively normal, and my thoughts have calmed significantly.

  Unfortunately, as soon as I leave the studio, my neurotic thoughts catch up with me again, and disappointment and worry morphs into anger. How dare he stand me up. But he didn’t really stand me up, did he? He’s never said that he’d be there for every single class — I just assumed, I just hoped.

  As I walk back home, I do everything my doctors have taught me. I drag myself out of my own body, and assess the situation as if I were an unbiased spectator. Yes, I’m definitely acting crazy, and this little crush has gone way too far. I need to rein it in. Now. But how can I do that?

  The answer is simple: stop going to the classes, cut all contact. Much easier said than done. For someone normal, it could
be done. For someone obsessive and compulsive like myself, it’s next to impossible. And I’m afraid that no amount of drugs or therapy can help me.

  I already know that I will keep seeking him out, despite the fact that I know it’s wrong, and that I feel guilty about it, not to mention foolish. I just need to focus on my thoughts. As soon as any kind of romantic notion enters my head, I must squash it and remind myself that I’m happily married, and so is he.

  But are we? I’ve just discovered that my husband cheated on me years ago, and has been hiding an enormous secret ever since. Has Renee been hiding the same secret? How long have Renee and Joel been together? She probably came into the relationship with little Ava. And there’s the mysterious silver fox at her work — there’s something there. I just know it. I must know more.

  This desperate need for knowledge only feeds my obsession. Not only am I insanely attracted to Joel, but he also holds answers I desperately need. There’s no way I’m saying goodbye yet.

  When I get home, I throw myself into my family. If they only knew what has been fuzzing my brain lately, they’d all be appalled. They don’t deserve this. They deserve a wife and mother who is present for them, physically and emotionally. I need to get my shit together. If not for me… for them.

  I make a family favorite; ham and macaroni and cheese, fresh bread straight from the breadmaker. It’s amazing how I can still function so effectively despite the fact that my head is a complete mess. From the outside, I really do seem like I have my life together; the perfect mother, wife and friend. But I’m anything but. I’m a total fraud, if truth be told. I’m crazier than people realize.

  The boys and I cuddle up to Survivor with our lollipops, but I can’t quite focus. I can’t stop thinking about Joel. I’m shocked by how much his absence today affected me. That’s how I know I’ve gone off the deep end, and that it’s time to step back. The problem is… I won’t be able to step back until I have all the answers I need.