Married in Haste

by Christine Rimmer

  He didn’t answer. What a surprise. He just stared at her, a distant kind of stare that said he didn’t want to deal with this—he didn’t want to deal with her.

  Frustrated tears burned in her eyes. One spilled over. She felt it dribble down her cheek as she asked in a whisper, “Why don’t you just yell at me? Why don’t you just do something to let me know you’re in there, to let me know you care?”

  His lip curled in a sneer. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? If I started yelling at you and carrying on—maybe broke a lamp or two. It would make you feel right at home.”

  She put a hand to her throat and sucked in a shuddery breath. “Ouch. That hurt.”

  At least he looked sorry. “You’re right. That was out of line—but can’t you just be a little patient? Can’t you just give it some time? Things will get better, you’ll see.”

  More tears spilled over. “And what if they don’t?” She wiped at her damp cheeks, one and then the other, with the back of her hand. “What if we just get farther and farther apart, in our hearts, where it matters? What if you just keep on dragging around here, looking like somebody shot your dog, only coming to life when we’re in bed together? I don’t know if I can stand that.”

  “Just wait. You’ll see. Things will get better.” He said the words again—through gritted teeth that time, making her wonder who he was trying so hard to convince.

  She argued the obvious. “But things aren’t getting better. They’re getting worse.”

  He rubbed his eyes, fingers digging into the sockets, then scraped his hands down his weary face. “Angie. Can we just leave it? Can we just…let it be?”

  “No. We can’t. I’m sorry, but letting it be isn’t working for me.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want to…understand why you’re not happy anymore. I want you to explain to me what is going on with you.”

  He let his arms drop heavily to his sides. “I’m crazy for you, okay? It’s…not what I wanted. But it’s happened. And now, I’m only waiting for the craziness to pass.”

  Her frustration rose again. She tried her best to keep it under control, to speak quietly. “Realistically, Brett, what’s so horrible about us being in love with each other?”

  “It’s not what we—”

  She threw up both hands. “Okay, okay. It’s not what we agreed on, not what we planned. But things could be a whole lot worse—like, say, one of us could have a deadly disease. Or end up in a coma. Or…get burned to a crisp in a flash forest fire. Or, even, say, what if one of us wasn’t in love with the other? Now, that would be kind of tough. But this? Well, yeah. It was a shock at first, for both of us. But, hey. Try learning to live with it, why don’t you? I have. And I’ve discovered it’s just not that much of a hardship to be in love with my own husband!”

  “You’re shouting,” he said darkly.

  “You’re damn right I am!” she bellowed.

  “Bring it down, Angie.” He spoke so softly, but the look in his eyes threatened dire consequences if she didn’t lower her voice.

  Somehow, with great effort, she dialed it down a notch. “The real truth is, I think it’s kind of wonderful, really.” To that, he made a low, disgusted sort of sound. She resisted the powerful urge to do what she’d sworn she never would: to pick up the nearest lamp and hurl it at his thick Bravo skull. “No, it’s not what we planned on. But a lot of the time, life just doesn’t go according to plan. It happened. Love happened. And instead of dragging around like it’s the end of the world, you might just try looking at the problem in a whole new way. You might just try asking yourself what is so terrible about being nuts over your own wife?”

  His teeth were clenched so tight, a muscle leaped in his jaw. “The point is, I don’t want to be nuts, not even over you. I’m not a nuts kind of guy.”

  “Brett. Think again. You’re nuts for me. You said so yourself. That would make you…a nuts kind of guy.”

  He shook his head. “It’s only temporary. There’s solid science on this whole problem and—”

  “This problem. The problem of being crazy in love with me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m a problem. I’m your problem.”

  “That is not what I said.”

  “Gee. It sure sounded like it. It sounded like you said—”

  “Angie. This is going nowhere, degenerating into wild accusations and finger-pointing. I don’t want this. I don’t want to fight with you.”

  The irony was, she agreed with him. She always had. Fighting solved nothing. But by then, she just didn’t know what else to do. She couldn’t bear the thought of going on this way, so far apart, never really talking, until he finally decided he wasn’t in love with her anymore and let himself be happy again.

  She pushed herself out of her chair and held out both hands to him. “Oh, please. Why won’t you see? The plans we had when we got married, they didn’t work out. None of this is turning out the way we planned. We weren’t supposed to fall in love. And look at us. We’re both completely gone on each other. I wasn’t supposed to get pregnant for at least a year. And here I am, having a baby. We weren’t going to yell and scream at each other—”

  “I have not raised my voice to you.”

  “Well, whoop-de-do.” She lifted a finger and twirled it in the air. “That’s just terrific. We’re on our way to divorce court, in case you didn’t notice. And when we get there, you can tell that to the judge….”

  Divorce. Oh, God. Had she really used that word on him? With a shocked cry, she clapped her hand over her mouth.

  But it was too late. The D-word hung there, poisoning the air between them. Brett said something not the least reasonable under his breath as they stared at each other, the terrible distance between them yawning wider than ever before.

  Into the cavernous silence, Brett asked, “Is that what you want, then, a divorce?”

  The softly spoken question shuddered through her like a punch. “No. How can you even think that?”

  “Well, Angie. You said it.”

  “I know. And I shouldn’t have.” She sank to the chair again, feeling hopeless and miserable and utterly defeated. “But, Brett, I don’t know what to say to you, how to deal with you, where to…go from here…” She hoped against hope that he would come to her, put a comforting hand on her shoulder, tell her again that it would be all right, even if it wasn’t true.

  He stayed where he was. “I think enough has been said for one night. More than enough.”

  If he’d only reach out a hand to her…

  But he didn’t. And she couldn’t blame him. What she’d said was beyond it, dirty fighting in the extreme, exactly the sort of thing they’d always been so certain they’d never pull on each other.

  She drew her slumped shoulders back and made herself look at him. “I, um…yeah. We should go to bed, I guess. You go ahead. I’ll be there. In a while.”

  “All right, then.”

  And that was it. He turned for the bedroom and left her sitting there, thinking how bad she’d messed up, despising herself for letting her temper get the better of her—and still, in her heart, deeply angry with him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Angie never joined Brett in their bed that night. She slept in one of the spare rooms.

  Brett heard her go down the stairs and thought, Fine. Let her sleep alone.

  He was furious at her. Furious, and cut to the core. He didn’t dare try to deal with her any more that night. The violence and confusion within him might get loose. He might say or do something from which the two of them as a couple would never recover.

  They’d end up yelling at each other. Going at it blow-for-verbal-blow. Living his worst nightmare. Hurting each other beyond the point of saving what they had together, getting completely out of control.

  He didn’t drop off to sleep until sometime after two.

  And when he did, he dreamed of his bad dad, Blake; saw those scary pale gray eyes of his, w
atching, seeing more than any normal man had a right to see. In the dream, Blake smiled, a psychopath’s smile, slow and cruel and deadly. And then he laughed, a laugh like dead leaves rustling in a winter wind, like the dangerous hiss of a poisonous snake.

  “No,” Brett said. “No…” He looked down to escape the scary pull of those eyes and saw his own hands. A toddler’s hands. Small. Dimpled. Weak…

  And Blake was towering over him, a dark shadow big enough to block out the sun, to swallow all the light in the world.

  Brett woke sitting up, dripping cold sweat, the sheets all tangled around him.

  Blinking, arming sweat from his eyes, he saw his own bedroom, the shadowed shapes of bureau and night table, the blue glow of the numbers on the digital clock. Beyond the window, through the dark, rising from the steep bank across the river, the tall pines loomed into the star-thick mountain sky.

  Angie’s side of the bed was still empty.

  Probably just as well.

  He got up, went to the bathroom, drank water from the tap and took special care not to meet his own eyes in the wide mirror that spanned the long counter and the two sinks. Back in the bedroom, he straightened the covers and got into bed again, turning on his side, away from the empty place where his wife should have been.

  The next morning they were elaborately careful with each other—polite and mostly silent. That was fine with Brett. They went to the clinic…and they got through the day by keeping it strictly professional, both of them focusing all their attention right where it was supposed to be: on caring for their patients.

  At home that evening, Angie cooked dinner while Brett sat in his favorite easy chair in the living room reading the Sacramento Bee. When the food was ready, they ate in the breakfast nook, a silent meal, one during which they both carefully avoided making eye contact.

  Glory called at seven. Angie took the call downstairs. A half an hour later, she came back up, her eyes and nose red and puffy. Though she pointedly did not speak to him or look his way, Brett got the message loud and clear. She’d been crying on the phone to her baby sister.

  He probably shouldn’t have let that get to him, shouldn’t begrudge her someone to talk to when she was feeling low. But he did begrudge her. He felt betrayed. He wondered what kind of rotten stuff she’d been saying to Glory about him.

  But he didn’t ask. He didn’t say a damn word.

  There was no sense in going there. Nothing but trouble would come of it.

  She disappeared into their bedroom. He stared blankly at the TV, but he couldn’t keep himself from glancing up when she emerged a few minutes later with her toothpaste, toothbrush, that special soap she used and what looked like a pair of lightweight pajamas—though he couldn’t be sure if the wad of yellow cloth was pajamas or not. She’d never worn pajamas in their bed….

  He forced himself to stare at the TV again, to watch Keith Oberman’s lips move, to ignore the bleak sound of her footsteps moving away from him, going back down the stairs.

  By the next night, Wednesday, when he got home late from the hospital in Grass Valley and found their bed empty again, he realized that this stand-off was getting to be a pattern; they were leading separate lives under the same roof.

  He knew he should do something about it. But he was still so damn mad at her. He was afraid of the things he might say if he marched down the stairs, rousted her from the bed in the spare room and tried to talk to her.

  So he put it off.

  Later, he thought—when he didn’t want to grab her and shake her until she came to her senses and started acting rationally. When he didn’t want to shout at her so bad it made an itching sensation under his skin.

  Thursday went by in pretty much the same way as the days before it. Friday, as well.

  Saturday, she ran the vacuum and washed windows in the morning. He went over to the clinic to catch up on some paperwork. When he got back at noon, she wasn’t there.

  But she’d left a note on the table. Having lunch at the diner. Going swimming after. Back by four. Dinner at my parents’. Six o’clock.

  Right, he thought. It was Dani’s birthday, wasn’t it? Angie had mentioned the party last week.

  Back when they were still speaking to each other.

  Still sleeping with each other…

  And who the hell was she having lunch with, anyway?

  Not that it mattered. Not that he needed to know…

  When they got to the Dellazola house that night, Angie went straight to the kitchen to join the women. Brett took a chair in the family room with the men, who were watching a wrestling match on Little Tony’s big-screen TV. No one seemed to notice that Angie and her husband weren’t getting along.

  At seven-fifteen, Rose called everyone to the table. They all got up and headed for the dining room—and Trista started screaming.

  Little Steffie had vanished again.

  The frantic search began. Since they were all running up and down the stairs, several of them in every room, Brett headed for the front door—which he found, mysteriously, slightly ajar.

  Steffie wasn’t on the front porch. He hurried down the steps and across the lawn—and spotted her shining brown hair as she toddled off down Jewel Street.

  “Steffie!” He shouted and took off at a run.

  The kid stopped and turned. He saw her smile. “Docca Bwett!” she called.

  He caught up with her quickly and scooped her into his arms. She hugged him and patted the back of his neck with her soft little hand. “I go for a walk,” she proudly announced when she pulled back to grin at him again.

  “You should ask your mommy first.”

  She pinched up her tiny mouth. “Oops.”

  He carried her quickly back to the brick steps and up them as the Dellazolas emerged in a pack from the house, every one of them shouting.

  “There she is!”

  “Brett’s got her!”

  “Well, wouldn’t you know?”

  The family surrounded them, laughing, joking how they all knew he’d be the one to save the day. He passed the little girl to her sobbing mother.

  Rose said, “Oh, Brett. How did we ever get along without you?”

  He muttered something appropriately modest and low-key—and scanned the crowd around him, seeking Angie.

  She was there, but standing back on the porch steps. When he tried to catch her eye, her gaze slid away.

  They couldn’t continue like this and he knew it. That night, when they got home, they were talking this out.

  A half hour later, after Old Tony offered a long-winded toast to Dani, the birthday girl, Ike tapped his glass with his butter knife and stood.

  “Ahem. To my beautiful wife. Happy birthday, my darlin’.” He waited for everyone to raise their glasses and drink, before adding, “And, Dani has news.” He beamed at his wife. “The best news.”

  “Oh, yes.” Dani’s eyes shone with happy tears. “The best birthday present ever…”

  Rose let out a cry. “A baby? A little one? You two are giving me a grandchild, at last?”

  Dani and Ike bobbed their heads in unison and everyone at the table erupted into clapping and cheering and shouts of “Congratulations!” Angie, Trista and Clarice all jumped up in unison and ran to Dani, surrounding her, all of them hugging her at once.

  Brett clapped his hands like everyone else and watched his wife hugging her sister and couldn’t help thinking about the baby he and Angie would have.

  It wouldn’t have been the right time, and Brett knew it, for him and Angie to announce that they were having a baby, too.

  No. This was Dani’s and Ike’s moment. They’d waited a long time for this. And it was Dani’s day, anyway.

  It would have been good, though, to have Angie at least glance his way, meet his eyes, to share a secret smile in honor of their own baby, the one they’d be announcing to the family in the next month or two….

  He was happy about the baby, he truly was, now that he’d had a few days to deal with
the fact that baby was coming.

  He knew he needed to tell Angie that.

  And he would, damn it. Tonight. When they got home…

  The evening wore on. Angie granted him no glances—let alone any smiles.

  And as the hours went by and she wouldn’t even look at him, he started remembering all the reasons he was mad at her. He kept hearing her voice, making that rotten crack about how they would end up in divorce court, kept thinking of the way she’d yelled at him, of how she demanded that he be happy over feeling things he damn well didn’t want to feel.

  Aunt Stella took him aside as the party broke up. “Don’t forget…”

  “I know, Stella. Angie needs to go see Father Delahunty.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with her. It’s an important step. I can’t see why she won’t take it.”

  Because she thinks we’re going to end up divorced, anyway, he thought. He said, “I’ll talk to her. Again.”

  “Good. You keep after her. See she does what’s right.”

  Great idea. He’d be sure to talk to her about it. If he ever talked to her again.

  At home, Angie went downstairs and he went to the master suite.

  Sunday dragged by. And Monday and Tuesday. Over a week since she’d moved into the room downstairs.

  And still, they went on. Living like strangers in the same house.

  Wednesday started out the same. A silent breakfast, a morning at the clinic where they kept it to the week-long pattern of brisk, impersonal professionalism. At lunchtime, she told him she was taking the rest of the day off. She said she had a few errands to run.

  Fine with him. Things weren’t all that busy. He could keep up with the patient load on his own. And it was just easier, without her around, without that constant undercurrent of angry tension between them.