Christine tried to get a grip on her emotions as Lauren took her to the lockers, wordlessly sliding the key from her pocket, opening the locker to retrieve the car keys, then replacing the locker key, only to retake Christine’s arm and guide her out through the dim reception area toward the glass double doors, blinding with sunlight.
“This way, honey,” Lauren said under her breath, just as two uniformed corrections officers walked past them.
Christine raised a hand against the sunlight, taking a deep breath as they walked through the official parking lot, though the humidity made it impossible to breathe.
“You’re okay, Christine.” Lauren squeezed her arm, keeping her in motion, saying nothing more because families were all around them, walking past them to the prison.
Christine nodded, trying to recover as they walked along, trying not to think about what she had just learned, or what she would do about it, or whatever was going to happen next. She took each step as if it were a deliberate action, knowing that each footfall carried her farther away from Zachary, and at the same time knowing that while she wanted to leave Zachary, she also wanted to stay, because she was undeniably connected to him, now. She was carrying his baby.
She spotted her car, the first in the lot because they had gotten here so early, and the sight of it anchored her in reality, taking her outside of her thoughts. It was her car. She paid the car loan every month. She had a life. She had a husband, a mortgage, a dog, and a cat in Connecticut. She had to go back home. She wanted to go back home.
My number was 3319.
But she understood, at the same time, that no external change could alter the inner reality. Zachary was a part of her, fully half of the child she carried inside her very body, and it was that inside-out feeling, that disconnect that was nevertheless connected, which confounded her, bollixed her up, rendered her incapable of parsing any of the feelings she was having, but still she kept moving toward her car.
Christine realized as Lauren aimed the key fob, chirped the car unlocked, and led her to the passenger side, that she was in no shape to drive, and it was then that the tears started to come. Lauren’s timing was perfect and she opened the passenger door, stowed a weeping Christine inside, and even buckled her into the seat, so that by the time they had turned onto Route 29 heading home, the shoulder harness was the only thing holding Christine up.
Chapter Twenty-five
Christine waited for Marcus to come home, finding reasons to stay downstairs, puttering around the kitchen. She hadn’t bothered changing when she got home, and she wasn’t crying anymore because she cried out all her tears, and then some. She could never thank Lauren enough for what a great friend she’d been the whole weekend and told her so when she dropped Lauren off at her house, where they gave each other a final hug. They’d both agreed that it was time to tell Marcus, but only one of them would have to do the telling.
She’d gone through bills, then wiped out the plastic container they kept under the counter for trash, her least favorite task. She’d always try to ignore the stinky smells when she put in a new fresh white plastic liner, and she always bought the scented to try to combat the stink, but she could never bring herself to wash out the actual plastic container the way she did now, awkwardly scrubbing the tall plastic bin in the kitchen sink, then turning it over with difficulty, trying to rinse it out using the spray hose beside the faucet.
The garbage smells made her nauseous, mixing with her hormones, or the dread of what was to come when Marcus got home. It was past nine thirty, which was her pregnancy bedtime, but something told her to stay downstairs. Keep on her feet. Talk to him eye-to-eye, not flat on her back, lying in bed. She felt as if she were in a sort of suspended animation until he came home, felt in the very air as if the entire home held its breath, but that could have been her imagination. Murphy was typically oblivious, curled up at the end of his dog bed, with his butt spilling onto the floor because Lady was hogging the middle in a way that only cats can and only dogs permit.
Christine tilted the trash bin on its side upside down, letting the water run out into the sink, but it went too slowly. It wasn’t worth wasting paper towels for, so she grabbed a sackcloth and wiped down the inside, shoving her arm so far inside to reach the bottom of the bin that she got water on the shoulder of her shirtdress.
Suddenly she heard the front door being unlocked, then opened, in the entrance hall. Murphy raised his head from his paws and swung his nose toward the entrance hall, evidently not sleeping as soundly as Christine had thought, but Lady didn’t stir, only resettled after the interruption.
“Honey?” Marcus called out, then there was the jingling of his car keys tossed onto the console table and the rumble of his roller bag, which he would roll to the bottom of the stairs to be brought upstairs, later. By habit, he did things the same way every time, so that he rarely lost his keys, his wallet, or his phone. Christine didn’t have to wonder how such an orderly man would take such disorderly news, which is what worried her.
“In the kitchen!” Christine spread out a dishcloth flat on the granite counter, so that she could turn the trash can upside down to drain overnight.
“Mmph,” Marcus said under his breath, a soft noise that Christine knew reflected mild surprise that she was still downstairs. She heard the sound of his footsteps coming her way, a tapping that told her he had his loafers on, and the rhythm of his footsteps was steady and slow as usual because he had long legs and a strong stride, so he got wherever he wanted to quickly and never had to hurry.
“Hi,” Christine said, and she was about to turn to face him, but the trash can wobbled on the dishcloth and she jumped to prevent it from falling.
“I can help you with that.” Marcus came over, standing behind her as she hastily righted the trash can. She wasn’t ready to be physically close to him yet, or maybe she knew he wouldn’t want to be close to her after this conversation, and she backed away, turning to him.
“How was your trip?” Christine asked, backing toward the counter, and as soon as she said it, she knew everything was wrong.
“Honey?” Marcus looked at her funny, first with some surprise, then with concern, his handsome features softening. “Are you okay? Have you been crying?”
“Yes.” Christine swallowed hard. She didn’t know where to begin. She had rehearsed it but she wasn’t sure where to start.
“Babe, listen. We don’t need to fight about this anymore.” Marcus took a step toward her, with a conciliatory sigh. “I’ve been thinking, the whole way home on the plane. I think best on planes. I get some of my best ideas on planes, you know that.”
Christine nodded. “I know but—”
“No buts. I really think this is going to work out. I spoke with Gary today, and he has our lawsuit all ready to go. He put it to the top of the pile, he said. We have an appointment to go in tomorrow morning to sign it, and he’ll file it. It’s not against Davidow, only Homestead, and—”
“Marcus?”
“I know what you’re going to say, but here’s what I decided. This lawsuit is going to help us both. We’re going to delegate this, the stress of it, the worrying about it. We don’t need this, we don’t need to fight about this.”
Christine wanted to break in, but Marcus was trying to finish his point.
“We can let Gary handle it, that’s what lawyers are for. We have the money, will pay him what it takes. Let’s turn him loose and let him find out about our donor. It’s his job, not ours.”
“Marcus,” Christine said more firmly, unable to take the irony, but Marcus barely seemed to hear her.
“What I also realized on the plane is that we’re dealing with too many hypotheticals. We’re getting worked up over a hypothetical. Jeffcoat could turn out not to be our donor, but we’re acting like he is. There’s no reason to worry until we have to—”
“There’s something I need to tell you.” Christine braced herself, pulling out the tall cherrywood stool at the kitchen island, fee
ling that she had to sit down. She flashed on those scenes in the movies, when the person with the bad news says to the person who doesn’t know, “you need to sit down,” but the truth was, she was the one who needed to sit down. Because in that moment she realized that the only thing worse than hearing the worst news of your life is being the person who has to deliver the worst news of your life.
“What? Is something the matter?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, what?” Marcus stood tall, facing her, looking every inch the Suburban Dad he so wanted to be in his blue oxford shirt and khakis, but something about the way he was standing, his long arms hanging loose at his sides, his chest open and exposed, made him so vulnerable. She almost couldn’t tell him, and she flashed on Zachary telling her that the human body was a thing of beauty because so many structures protected the heart, but she realized that the human heart simply couldn’t be protected, not by muscle, not by bone, not by anything.
Christine took a deep breath. “I went to Graterford this weekend and met with Zachary Jeffcoat and he told me that he’s Donor 3319. We don’t need a lawsuit to figure that out. We already have the answer.”
Marcus blinked, once, then again, though he remained standing, absolutely motionless, and for a moment, Christine was afraid that he would fall backwards like a cardboard cutout, like the Flat Stanley that the kids in school took everywhere, taking pictures with something that looked like a man but was only a drawing of a man.
“Marcus, I know this is a shock, and I know it’s awful news, but there it is. I wanted to know and I found out.”
“Are you serious?” Marcus asked, his tone hushed. His shock was so complete that it becalmed him, and Murphy, who had been waiting for Marcus to come over and pet him, lowered his head to his paws, knowing that something was wrong.
“Yes, I’m serious,” Christine answered simply. “I can tell you the whole story—”
“Hold on.” Marcus held up a large hand, showing her his palm. “Are you telling me you weren’t in Jersey this weekend?”
“I wasn’t in Jersey.”
Marcus winced slightly, and for some reason, Christine knew she had wounded him, as surely as if she’d stabbed him in the heart, in fact. She could see the impact of the revelation that she had lied to him land even more vividly than she could see the impact of the first revelation, that Zachary was their donor.
“Was Lauren with you?”
“Yes, we went together.”
“How did you get there? Where did you stay?”
“I drove and we stayed at a hotel near the prison.” Christine understood that Marcus had to come up to speed, asking her questions about the details before he began to deal with the headline.
“This was where? Somewhere outside of Philadelphia?”
“Collegeville. It’s in the country.”
“So when we spoke on the phone, you were really in a hotel near the prison?”
“Yes.”
Marcus winced again, wounded a second time, but she had to get him past the preliminaries. “Did Lauren tell Josh where she was?”
“Yes,” Christine had to admit. “Marcus, I’m sorry that I lied to you, I know that was wrong, and I’m sorry about that. But let’s talk about what we learned, which is that he’s our donor. He really is our donor. He told me, completely unprompted. He didn’t know who I was—”
“What did you tell him? Who did you say you were?” Marcus frowned, pained, though his voice remained even and his questions made sense. Christine realized that was probably why he was so good at his job. He could fly down to a job site, elicit the problem by asking questions, then figure out a solution. The only problem was, this time, there was no solution.
“I told him my real name, but I didn’t tell him why I was there. He doesn’t know that he was our donor.”
“You actually met him?” Marcus’s eyes rounded like blue marbles. “You went inside a prison and you met a serial killer?”
“He’s not a serial killer, he hasn’t been linked to the other—”
“Are you kidding me? Am I really hearing this?” Marcus stepped back, flabbergasted. “Did you meet with this serial killer alone?”
“Lauren was there—”
“Lauren was there, and you and Lauren met with a serial killer and you determined that he’s our donor. You found this out just by asking?”
“Yes, and—”
“You tricked him? You didn’t tell him who you really were, or why you wanted to know? You assumed a false identity?” Marcus’s mouth dropped open. He looked at her with utter disbelief.
“Now we have the answer to the question, the truth—”
“How do you know he told you the truth? He could be lying. The man’s a criminal, a serial killer.” Marcus started shaking his head, in a state of shock.
“He wasn’t lying. He would have no reason to lie. He didn’t even want to tell me about it. I had to get it out of him.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. This isn’t like you at all! You’ve never done anything like this.”
“I’ve never been in this situation before, and maybe we don’t need a big lawsuit now to figure out that he’s the donor, because he is. Maybe Gary can just call them and tell them that we already know it, and they’ll make a settlement with us, just in case the baby needs evaluation and help, like he said.”
“Are you trying to tell me that’s why you did it? That’s why you went down there? So we don’t have to file a lawsuit?”
“No, I went down there because I had to know, I couldn’t not know any longer, and I knew a way to find out. That’s why I did it.” Christine fumbled for words, trying to organize her thoughts. “I expected you to be upset, and I know this seems really strange, and I’m sorry I lied to you, but I met with him, twice—”
“Twice?” Marcus kept shaking his head.
“He’s nice, he’s smart. He’s easy to talk to, he’s charming—”
“Charming?” Marcus’s face reddened. “Honey, Ted Bundy was charming. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”
“He’s not like Ted Bundy, Zachary’s—”
“Zachary, now? You call him Zachary? Are you on a first-name basis? Does he call you Christine? Does he call you by your first name? Zachary and Christine?”
“Marcus. We talked, we had a conversation—”
“I don’t understand what you’re thinking. I don’t know how you expect me to hear this.” Marcus started edging away. He wasn’t angry; he was anguished.
“I know it’s a lot to process, but now we know who our donor is. Now we can put a face and a name to him, and I’m not even sure he’s guilty of murder, I think he might even be innocent and—”
“I don’t want to know who our donor is!” Marcus kept backing away, stricken.
“What do you mean? Of course you do.” Christine got off the chair, in confusion.
“No I don’t. I liked it anonymous. Don’t you get it?”
“No, I don’t. You wanted us to sue to find out his identity. It wasn’t going to be anonymous any longer—”
“That’s different, that’s Gary finding out, that’s lawyers finding out, that’s corporations battling in court, and on phones, that’s insurance companies.” Marcus shook his head, nonplussed. “That’s not you finding out, my wife, meeting him.”
“What’s the difference who finds out or how? Now, we know and we—”
“I don’t want you to meet him. I don’t want you to lie to me about it. I don’t want you to be the one who finds out the real father of the baby you’re carrying.”
Christine’s mouth went dry, hearing the jealousy in his voice. She had expected that he would be angry, even furious, but she hadn’t expected that he would be hurt and jealous. “Marcus, it’s not like that—”
“You’re carrying his child, Christine. You went to see the man whose child you’re carrying.”
Christine felt his words hit home, and she felt terrible. �
��Marcus, I’m sorry—”
“We spent so much time in therapy saying he’s just a biological donor, and that’s all I wanted him to be. That was the deal.” Marcus shook his head, edging out of the kitchen, his forehead knotted with pain. “Maybe Zachary wanted anonymity, but you know what? So did I. It worked for me, too.”
Christine kept going toward him, not wanting him to be so hurt, seeing how much pain he was in. “Marcus, you’re getting the wrong idea.”
“No, I’m not. It was never the deal that you would go running off to meet him, that you would lie to me about that.” Marcus’s eyes glistened suddenly, an agonized blue. “Whose wife are you? Whose woman? His or mine?”
“Marcus, of course, I’m your wife—”
“But you’re having his baby. Zachary. You don’t even care that he’s in jail for carving up nurses. You’re already on his side.”
“There’s no sides—”
“Yes there are sides! You’re on one, and I’m on the other. Correction, you and Zachary and the baby are on one, and I’m on the other.”
“No, that’s not true!” Christine cried out, but Marcus turned away, left the kitchen, and walked into the entrance hall.
“Leave me alone. Just leave me alone.”
Christine went after him. “Marcus, I’m sorry, I didn’t think of it that way, that’s not the way I meant it.”
“That’s the way it is.” Marcus kept walking away from her, into the living room, flicking on the light. “I’m tired, I’ve been traveling all day. I had a shitstorm to deal with this weekend. I want to sleep downstairs, I need time to think alone.”
“Marcus, we can still talk about it—”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I want to think about it, by myself.” Marcus held her off with a straight arm, so Christine stopped, motionless until Murphy came wandering in, his toenails tapping and his tail wagging slowly, confused because nobody ever went into the living room.
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