by Katie Ford
I stare at her as she recounts the tale, emotions warring on that thin, twisted face. Heather’s angry and discouraged and sad all at once, a woman folding in on herself. She stops talking for a minute, eyes faraway again.
“When it still didn’t happen, the Morgans sent me to a specialist. We tried all kind of treatments and pills and procedures but nothing took. And on my twentieth birthday, that’s when the nail in the coffin came. They took me to a nice dinner and told me it wasn’t going to work.”
“What wasn’t going to work?” I ask tremulously.
“Us,” she answers flatly. “Our relationship. They said they’d get me a place to live, put money in the bank for me. They promised I’d be set for life. They wished me luck. Can you believe it? After everything we went through, all I got was a pat on the back, and a ‘take care.’” Her tone turns bitter then.
“So this,” I said, taking a deep breath and gesturing to the surroundings. The furnishings, the house, all of it. “This is courtesy of the Morgans?”
“Yes. But they were done with me. Just gone from my life. It was like I ceased to exist, vanished into thin air. And me? I was left alone and confused and fucked up from all of the medical procedures and injections, all the poking and prodding. I shouldn’t have still wanted them, but I did, like a junkie going cold turkey.”
“How long ago was that?”
She chews her bottom lip, thinking for a moment.
“Maybe eighteen months? I’m not sure. I’ve been depressed, if you can’t tell,” she says bitterly, flipping a string of straw-like hair behind her back. “I gave everything to those men, and for what? They left me when I was of no use anymore. But I guess that’s how it works huh? When your time’s up, peace out, sayonara.”
“I’m sure it’s not like that,” come my quiet words. “I’m sure it’s not.”
She shakes her head.
“No, you don’t know. It is. And I’m still here, rotting in place, waiting.”
Oh god, no.
“Because they might come around again?” come my timorous words.
Heather nods, another tear falling down her hollow cheek. “I thought they might. But they don’t come. They don’t want me anymore. I’m used up and done for.”
I duck my head, ashamed for the way she was treated.
“I’m really sorry,” comes my mumble. “I had no idea.”
“Really?” she asks, her face a snarl of frustration. “You didn’t think maybe they’d tried this out with someone else? Or many someones, for that matter? I mean, you think they just came up with this bright idea yesterday?”
Her words are like a slap in the face.
“No,” I stammer. “I – I just assumed they’d had other women in their lives. It didn’t seem relevant, though. At the time. It was all in the past.”
Heather glares at me with disgust.
“Yeah, it’s easy to pretend, isn’t it?” she asks bitterly. But then those blue eyes seize mine, burning with ice fire. “Between all of the medical procedures and weight loss, I’m not anyone they would consider anymore. But you,” she spits, looking me up and down, “you’re just what they like. Youthful, curvy, healthy. You have that long hair and big ass. Your tits probably hang like pendulums when they fuck you from behind. They probably love those wide, baby-making hips. Oh yeah, I can see why they like you, all ripe and ready, bursting with fertility.”
“Um, um …,” comes my stammer. But no words come out. Instead, I ask to use the restroom and disappear down the hall, locking myself in privacy.
Oh god, oh god. What’s going on? Inside, I stare blindly in the mirror and hyperventilate, trying to get my bearings. What the hell? First, Heather is clearly bat-shit crazy. But is it her fault? The Morgans used her up until she’s just a shell of a human.
And then they left her when she couldn’t give them what they wanted. I’m sick with the realization. The Morgans swooped in and took advantage of a young girl the same way they did to me. And now she’s lost to the world, angry and bitter and hideous. Ruined. And here I am, caught in the swamp, too dumb to get myself out. If I don’t produce, will I end up like this too?
The question echoes in my mind, ramifications horrendous. Because Heather’s story doesn’t speak well of the men I love, and I can’t move, frozen in place.
But I have to. Hiding in this bathroom forever is not an option. So working hard, I try to breathe normally, a deep breath in, then out. Tears sting my eyes and my body aches with tension.
But again, I have to come out. So hand trembling, I fumble with the doorknob before making my way back to the living room. But Heather’s not there. There’s a tinkling sound, and jerking my head, I see her in the kitchen, looking blankly out the window. She turns slowly, as if coming out of a trance, then blinks and turns off the faucet, emptying a glass into the sink.
Her eyes sharpen with recognition.
“I used to be young and fresh like you,” she bites out. “Beautiful. I was gorgeous and they couldn’t take their eyes off me. Couldn’t stop touching me, kissing me, fucking me. And I can be beautiful again. I can give them pleasure,” she says, lips pressed together so tight they’re almost white. “But they won’t want me because I can’t give them a baby.”
Her voice breaks harshly, painful to hear. And I don’t know what to say, hands gesturing futilely as my mouth opens, no words coming out.
But Heather’s on a roll, staring at my poochy midsection now.
“You’ll overflow with life soon,” come her slow words. “They’ll want you even more. They’ll shower you with clothes, a car, whatever you want. But mark my words. If you can’t give them an heir, then you’re nothing more than trash. Look at me,” she spits, gesturing to her wasted form. “Look how they threw me out when I couldn’t perform.”
My hand claps over my mouth to keep from crying.
Heather leans back against the kitchen counter, folding skinny arms over a nonexistent chest. “I won’t have to work another day in my life. I’ve got this place. I’ve got a full bank account. A nice car. Someone who cleans for me once a week. But I can’t get out of bed most mornings. It hurts. Have you ever walked around with a plastic bag over your head? That’s what it’s like to be me,” she says fiercely, eyes glaring. “I can’t breathe most days, can’t even take a deep breath.”
I have to help her somehow. Holding my hands out, my voice starts.
“I’ll talk to them,” come my rushed words. “I’m sure the Morgans don’t know, there’s an explanation for all this – “
But the woman cuts me off.
“Go. Fuck. Yourself,” come her clear, enunciated words, chock full of poison. “You heard me. Go fuck yourself.”
And whirling on my heel, I turn and run out of the house, muffled sobs bursting from my chest.
Oh god, oh god, how did this happen? I don’t know what to think, hurling myself into the car, sitting slumped in the driver’s seat. But at the same time, there’s an unmistakable truth to Heather’s words. Because she said the Morgans would give me everything, and they have. This Mercedes. The fantastic apartment. The professional-grade cookware.
But what if I don’t produce? What if I can’t get pregnant? Is it the door for me then? Have I been reduced to nothing but a womb?
And a sob tears through my chest again, so painful that I bend over double, clutching my stomach. Oh god, oh god. I’ve been so stupid.
Because I get it now. The Morgans are master businessmen and master manipulators. This plan of theirs, to share one woman and sire one heir, is a key part of their business operation. If I can’t provide them that, I’ll be out on my ass just like Heather Mastricci.
It’s disturbingly ruthless, Machiavellian to the max. Because children are human beings, and yet for them, an heir is also a wealth management tool. Can I live with that? Can I accept my role as a fertility goddess, a means to an end in this master plan? After all, the Morgans had it spelled out to a tee. Find a hot, horny chick to bear a child
, one able to accommodate their endless sexual appetites.
So what do I do now? The dilemma wrecks my mind. On the one hand, I’ve already missed two periods, and that never happens, my monthly flow comes like clockwork. So I must be pregnant already, right?
But on the other, there are doubts raging through my mind, a wild cacophony that makes it difficult to think. Because maybe I’m nothing but a tool in their life plan. Maybe the Morgans even have a powerpoint presentation laying it all out, and my role’s set forth on slides sixteen and seventeen. Oh god, oh god. Am I okay with that? Am I okay being nothing more than a vessel, used for my womb? Because it’s not too late. There are still options … or so I hope.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Macy
Blasting the water, I step into the shower stall, letting the spray pelt me. Oh god. Closing my eyes, I rest my forehead against the cool tile, praying for peace. Because what should I do? After that encounter with Heather, everything’s mixed up and muddled, with no clear path forwards.
On the one hand, the way the Morgans treated that girl was wrong. I don’t care what they told her or what they bought her. No cars, condos or cash is worth the devastation that Heather exhibited. How could they do that? Making the woman feel so good, only to drop her the minute she couldn’t produce. That’s not love or caring. That’s manipulation, pure and simple.
But my case isn’t so clear. Because I may already be pregnant, so where does that leave me? Should I pack my bags to disappear into the ether? Should I run home to Marsha and Jim, my parents’ disapproval a cold glare freezing me each day? Or should I stay here, and try and work things out?
When the boys trickle in for the evening, they find me curled up in front of a romantic comedy, wrapped in a fluffy pink bathrobe, shoving a fifth slice of pizza in my face. I hate to tell them but they are not getting anywhere past this terrycloth barrier tonight. And once I finish with this pizza, I’ve got a date with Ben & Jerry’s.
Sam eyes me suspiciously. Smith is more direct.
“What’s wrong honey?” comes his low growl, blue eyes trailing over my bod. “What’s going on?”
Matt, always more communicative, rephrases the question. “Tell us, baby girl. What’s with the Little Caesars? You never eat that stuff, fast food isn’t your thing. Did something happen today?”
I give them the side-eye, seven giants staring down at me wearing masks ranging from medium-concern to outright annoyance. The annoyance is Smith, who’s probably wondering what’s for dinner.
But I don’t want to face them just now.
“There’s pizza for you in the oven,” come my choked words, hoping to distract them.
But there’s no distraction. Matt lowers that massive form next to me on the couch, as Trent sits on my other side, taking a small palm in his giant fist.
“Talk to us,” Matt growls persuasively. “Tell us what’s going on.”
Trent is just as insistent.
“Now,” he rumbles, eyes direct. “Now, honey.”
There’s no avoiding the issue. If not now, then when? And given that there’s probably a baby already, I can’t put it off forever. So taking a deep breath, the words come.
“I met Heather Mastricci today,” I say slowly. “It was a shock, to say the least.”
Silence from the seven men. Blue eyes gaze at me, shuttered and expressionless.
“What?” I ask. “Why, was it wrong to talk to her?”
Matt shrugs carelessly.
“Not wrong,” he rumbles, face calm. “But that’s a surprise. How’d you get the idea?”
Okay, this is gonna be a hard one.
“My mom,” comes my rushed admission. “I know you hate Marsha, but still. She had a point. She put me on Heather’s trail, and it’s done. I met the woman, and it was an eye-opener.”
Trent’s hand squeezes mine roughly, a pulse beating heavily in his throat although his expression remains calm.
“And so?” the doctor rumbles deep in his chest. “What about it was so bad?”
I exhale deeply, oxygen departing in a whoosh.
“She’s gaunt and lifeless, like a corpse,” I begin slowly. “She’s clearly lost a lot of weight, nothing more than skin and bones. And the woman says she’s sick all the time, an after effect of the fertility treatments. Does that sound okay to you? Does that sound fair, or right?”
But the Morgans can be obstinate.
“Heather knew what she was getting into every step of the way,” Trent replies smoothly. “I explained the fertility treatments to her in great detail – the risks, the side-effects, the chances of success. She’s the one who chose to keep going.”
“Because she wanted to be with you,” I bite out. “She cared for you. She wanted to be the mother of your child. But you left her behind.”
The silence in the living room is deafening for a moment.
“We had to move on,” Sam says finally. “Having an heir is the cornerstone of our long-term strategy. We enjoyed the woman, and spent a lot of money and time trying to make it work. But she couldn’t get pregnant,” he concludes simply.
That got me. Calling Heather “the woman.” Spelling out her role in their “strategy.” What the hell? That was rich, real rich, striking to the heart of the problem like a dart on a bullseye.
And I had to take a stand for feminism. For the things I believe in. Sure, I’m not Ms. Corporate Titan, but at the same time, people are people and deserve to be treated with respect.
“A woman is not a business plan. A baby is not a business plan. I am not a business plan,” I say tightly, standing and clenching my fists into white-knuckled balls. “These are human beings you’re talking about, people with hopes, feelings and desires. Heather is a person – a person who’s hurting because of you and your master plan. You don’t feel anything for her? Really? Not anything?”
A pause once more.
“We do care for her,” Matt says slowly. “We pay for her lifestyle, the house, the car, everything. Heather’s set up for life.”
The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh. The Morgans really have no idea what’s wrong in this scenario. No clue whatsoever.
“That’s not it,” I say tightly, “She misses you, and it’s gonna kill her. Heather was the center of your universe for years and then – poof! – you’re gone. That’s bullshit and you know it. Money doesn’t make up for that.”
For the first time in a long time, all seven Morgan brothers are quiet. There’s no posturing, no arguing, no ordering. They’re just quiet, stares trained on me. I get a hold of myself, jerking my robe tight before starting for the second floor, ready to retreat to my room.
But as my slipper touches the first step, Sam’s deep voice sounds from across the room.
“It wasn’t great what we did, you’re right,” comes his baritone.
My head swivels like the girl in the Exorcist, almost flying off my shoulders. I stare in shock. Really? An admission of error? Acknowledgment of a mistake? From the Morgans? This can’t be happening.
But he nods slowly.
“We care about Heather,” interrupts Tim. “We absolutely cared about her, all the way until the end. But you have to understand Macy. We wanted something, and she couldn’t provide. This isn’t a question of money or wealth or any of that other shit. The biological urge for a child is real, and infertility is devastating. Even for happily married couples, it can wreck a relationship.”
My mouth snaps shut. That’s true. I’ve read articles about how infertility is a silent killer, devastating marriages because of dreams destroyed, visions of a family vanished into thin air. But still, it didn’t make sense.
“Break ups are break ups,” come my slow words, head shaking. “But this girl, she’s different. She’s wrecked. Absolutely wrecked, just a shadow of a human being now. And she says you did that to her.”
The men nod.
“She’s having a hard time, for sure,” says Smith, expressionless. “It was bound to happen.”
“Bound to happen?” I guffaw. “Why is that?”
Sam’s blue eyes are intent.
“Because she was at the center of a vortex. There were seven of us, and just one her. The feelings are magnified, emotions running like electrical currents all the time. Any woman would be broken once that current is shut down.”
But I shake my head again.
“I get it, sort of,” come my slow words. “But still, it’s crazy. Heather was a shell, nothing more than a living, breathing corpse. Is there something you can do for her?”
Silence once more.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” says Trent smoothly. “Most women don’t want their lovers to have any contact with exes.”
“It’s a bad idea,” interrupts Smith, voice harsh. “This is a fucked-up idea if there was ever one.”
But my head nods slowly.
“Listen,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I want to help Heather, if we can. Ex or no ex. Somehow, I want her to be okay. Or at least better than she is now. But there’s still this question about me ….” The words falter on my lips.