Shatter My Rock

by Greta Nelsen

  * * *

  I have only been away for a few days, but somehow the house has shifted around this new family of ours.

  Tim helps me to the recliner in the den, which I struggle to lower myself into without popping any sutures. Thank God, the doctors have double-stitched me: a row on the inside and a row on the out.

  “I’m tired,” I say, acutely aware of how ragged I must look. I am beyond the age where anything bounces back automatically. “Can you bring me a blanket?”

  For a split second, Tim hesitates, torn between helping me and tending to Owen, whom he has yet to settle. “Let me get his bassinet,” he says. “I’ll grab the throw off the bed.”

  I cautiously recline the chair and close my eyes, wait for Tim to return. But Ally is the one to drape the mottled chenille throw across my legs and tuck it under me. I don’t even have to open my eyes to know.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” I whisper as she draws the shades. But I’m not so sure she has heard. “Ally, come here.” I pause until I sense her. “Where’s Muffin?”

  It’s the only thing that’s off in this house: Tim’s big galumph of a dog has failed to greet us.

  “Daddy sent him to Gran’s,” Ally says. “He was bugging the baby.”

  “What do you mean ‘bugging the baby?’”

  “He kept putting his head in the bassinet, like he was going to bite. And he tore up a bunch of stuff too.”

  We’ve had Muffin for over two years, and he has never once acted this way, except with the fertility idol. “What did he tear up?” I ask, stumped as I survey the den, which looks fine.

  “The baby’s stuff: blankets, clothes, toys… He broke the changing table too.”

  “He broke the changing table?” I repeat, trying to picture how a dog might accomplish such a thing. Then again, in Muffin’s case, a wild imagination is not necessary. Great Danes are big to start with, and Muffin is a skyscraper of a brute. “Was Daddy upset?”

  “More like mad,” Ally says, as if the notion surprises her. “He went a little cuckoo.”

  Like Muffin tearing up the house, Tim going cuckoo is out of the norm. “Is everything okay?” I ask. Maybe there has been more pressure on my husband than I’ve realized.

  Ally nods. “Uh-huh.”

  Resilience. The girl has it in spades. “If you need anything, all you have to do is ask,” I remind her with an encouraging smile. “That’s what we’re here for.”

  She draws a breath and squeaks, “When can Muffin come home?”

  I miss him too, not that I’d admit it. “I’ll talk to Daddy.”

  * * *

  The problem with Muffin is testosterone, the hormonal balance in our house having changed. Where Tim and Muffin once countered me and Ally, now there’s Owen—and too much manliness to go around.

  “I don’t trust him,” Tim tells me when I bring up the subject of the dog. “You didn’t see the look in his eyes.”

  I can’t make sense of this. If I thought Muffin would do harm, I would’ve insisted we got rid of him long ago. “Come on,” I say. “Really?”

  Tim ponders his oatmeal, but a wailing screech from Owen’s room intervenes. I try to stand, but he stops me. “I’ll go.”

  I am still sore, bruised but healing, each new day better than the last. “Okay.”

  Tim returns with Owen nestled in the crook of his arm, a pacifier squeaking between the baby’s eager lips. “Want me to feed him?” I ask. I should be breastfeeding, but my milk has been spotty. When it’s there, I pump. Otherwise, it’s formula.

  There has been a passive-aggressive battle brewing between Tim and me in the last few days over Owen’s care, a tug-of-war I seem to be winning. “Sure,” he says. He lays the baby in my arms. “Let me get the bottle.”

  The funny thing is, Tim and I both know all he has to do is wait me out. In a few weeks, I will be back to work, and Owen will be his. Just like Ally.

  He passes me a warmed bottle, and I trade it for the pacifier, a move that draws frantic suckling from Owen. While he feeds, I fall for his pudgy cheeks, the slope of his upturned nose, the pools of blue that rule his irises. Mostly gifts from Tim.

  Ally rumbles into the kitchen, a pair of old-school roller skates dangling from her arm. “Ready?”

  Tim appears caught, which makes me giggle.

  “You got the present, didn’t you?” Ally asks with a sigh.

  Tim’s gaze flies to the clock, then the calendar. “Kelsey’s party?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  I am enthralled by this turn of events, a chink in Tim’s armor exposed. “I’m sorry,” he says to both me and Ally. Then to me specifically, “Will you be okay if…?”

  “Of course,” I say, shooing him off. “Go.”

  It’s a matter of minutes before I hear the van clear the driveway, time I spend staring dead-eyed at an innocuous sheet of paper Tim has left on the kitchen table. I must have laid eyes on the thing twenty times since we arrived home from the hospital, but only now do I see.

  The letters seem to lift off the page: Fowler, Owen Richard; blood type: AB. An assertion so implausible it invites dismissal, yet…

  I hear Dr. Patel’s voice say, “Is there any chance this could be a natural conception?”

  Then Eric Blair, “You were good, you know.”

  I study Owen, but I can’t tell. And it doesn’t matter. He is mine.

  * * *

  My return to work is met with the fanfare normally reserved for military homecomings and ticker-tape parades: glittery “welcome” signs; a canopy of baby-blue streamers; Mylar balloons so thick I can hardly discern I have an office anymore.

  I punch a few of the floating obstacles out of my way and settle at my desk, where I find a giant card—on the order of two-feet by three-feet—that has been signed by maybe two-hundred people. My work in HR puts me in contact with almost everyone in this place, if however briefly.

  I scan the names and well-wishes, trying to grant each its due. But something halts me. In nearly microscopic print, a message from Eric Blair: You’re welcome, Claire-bear. He has signed this cryptic sentiment: Kisses, Roofie.

  The closing throws me, but the use of that skin-crawl-inducing pet name leaves no doubt about its author. As for the message itself, I assume he aims to take credit for Owen, seeks praise for a job well done.

  I open my briefcase and shuffle some papers until I find the lab report, which I have painstakingly concealed from Tim for weeks.

  One last time I look, still disbelieving. Tim and I are both blood type A; type AB is not a possibility.

  I feel around under my desk, my fingers landing on the power switch of a shredder. I press it and feed the report through. Of course, this evidence still exists outside my realm of control, in God knows how many medical databases by now. But for a moment, relief descends.

  Roofie. The word is familiar, yet I can’t place it—at first. And when I do, I wish I hadn’t. Those days and weeks—months and years—I spent numbing the pain of what happened to Ricky have come back to haunt me.

  Rohypnol. It’s a date-rape drug with a variety of street names, chief among them roofie. I can see that small white pill pinched between my fingers, masquerading as a simple muscle relaxer with the promise of smashing my migraine to smithereens.

  Instead, this.

  There is a tower of work clogging my inbox that looks as if it will take six months to slog through, including a sexual harassment lawsuit in which I am both a representative of Hazelton United and a primary witness. A low-level department head got handsy with her intern, who didn’t return the favor. Now he’s suing us for a million five. The hope is that my testimony will be deemed immaterial, if it comes to that, since the incident I witnessed occurred off company grounds. I’m recommending a settlement.

  I buzz Laurie’s extension. “Can you set up a meeting with legal on the Harper case?”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Sure thing.”

&nb
sp; “And…” I know there’s something else I need her to jump on, but it escapes me, my brain awash in mommy hormones. “That’s all, I guess.”

  * * *

  I have found a way to shut Eric Blair’s mouth for good, a plan that leaves Tim, Owen, Ally and me untouched. But I need Jenna’s help.

  “Can I ask you a favor?” I say to her a few days later at lunch. I catch myself subconsciously nibbling my lip and stop.

  She breezily replies, “Yeah. Shoot.”

  “Can you get me a copy of IT’s credit card statement for the last year or so?”

  She squints. “What for?”

  “I need to check something. It’s a personnel matter,” I lie. It’s clear she wants more, so I add, “There may have been some unauthorized charges by one of the techs. I want to nip it in the bud.”

  In reality, I hope to find the noose Eric Blair has looped around his neck, so I can kick the box out from under him.

  “Give me a couple of days,” she says. “Things are really hectic right now.”

  I don’t want to appear too desperate. “No problem. Take your time.”

  She grins. “You know, I thought you were going to ask me to babysit.”

  This idea wouldn’t have occurred to me in a million years. Two million. “Really?”

  She nods, rolls her eyes. “Can you imagine?”

  “I think I can,” I say, because I am. Some time alone with Tim would be heaven-sent.

  * * *

  Jenna’s convertible wheels into our driveway at quarter to six on Saturday, a ripple of silver in a sea of black. Even our luxury minivan has not escaped this unwritten rule: Black is classy, chic, sophisticated. The elegance of a well-tailored suit.

  “I love your neighborhood,” Jenna says as I greet her at the door. “It’s so peaceful.”

  “Thanks,” I reply. “It’s great for the kids.”

  This statement once seemed a foregone conclusion, a fact so indisputable it rivaled Newton’s third law. But I now wonder if we’re doing Ally and Owen a disservice by raising them in the insular bubble of this gated community-equivalent, a place so separate it defies even the need for bars.

  “My condo’s great, but you can breathe out here,” Jenna says, puffing her lungs full of crisp autumn air.

  I tug the door shut and lead the way to the kitchen, where Tim blots residual formula from the corners of Owen’s mouth and then leans the baby over his shoulder, a clean rag at the ready.

  When Jenna sees them, she softens, takes on the countenance of a kindly aunt or a distant but loving cousin. “He’s gorgeous,” she tells Tim.

  Tim radiates pride. “Why, thank you,” he says. “He’s my little buddy.” He pats the baby on the back. “Aren’t you, buddy?”

  Muffin lumbers along and sniffs at Jenna’s coat, still uneasy over his new role and the ever-present threat of punishment. I hate to see him like this, but he left us no choice; we had to break him.

  “I forgot about you,” Jenna coos at the dog. “You big oaf.” When Muffin was a puppy, I took him to work. That’s where Jenna fell in love.

  She slips her coat off and passes it to me, but when I turn toward the hallway, she says, “Hold on.” She reaches for the coat, roots around in search of the right pocket and withdraws a number of quarter-folded sheets of paper. “The report you wanted.”

  “Uh…okay,” I say, surprised she’s brought it here. “Great.”

  In the time I’m gone, Jenna meanders to Ally’s room, where I find the duo pondering a glossy magazine advertisement featuring a picture-perfect ice cream sundae.

  “You should use that,” I tell Ally with an approving nod. “It’s so you.” Her teacher has assigned a project: vision boards. My daughter has been clipping and pasting for a week.

  “I like this one,” Jenna says, pointing out the family tree that anchors Ally’s poster, tiny apples representing Tim, Owen, Ally and me.

  Ally just grins.

  I slip in and plant a soft kiss on her head. “We’ll be back in a few hours,” I say. “Help Jenna with Owen…and Muffin.”

  Chapter 6

  I don’t know how Tim thought of this, and I prefer not to know.

  “What is this place?” I ask, as we roll into the lot of an industrial-looking building on the outskirts of town, a small up-lit sign on the lawn largely obscured by an overgrown bush.

  “An adventure,” says Tim.

  I was expecting champagne, raw oysters, and excitement of a sexier kind. “Okay…”

  “It’ll be fun,” he assures me. “We need this.” As persuasion, he unleashes the kind of kiss I thought we’d long ago left in the dust.

  “I’m a believer,” I say when he pulls his lips from mine.

  He smiles. “Let’s go.”

  He grabs a duffel bag from the cargo area of the van and grips my hand, a move that sends ticklish flutters racing through my belly. I squeeze back, wishing he could read my mind and know that, now more than ever, he’s the answer to a secret prayer. My spiritual home.

  The first hint of what we are in for is a cluster of pulleys and wires I glimpse through a bare window. Tim holds the door. “After you.”

  I want to be mad at him, say, What were you thinking? Remind him that my incision may not be fully healed. But the fact that he has enough confidence in me to even consider a place like this gives me wings. And I’m going to need them.

  “So what do you think?” he asks expectantly.

  I say, “I’ve never been rock climbing.”

  This building seems the size of a football stadium. Tim points at the far end, where four giant bubbles float and spin on the surface of a pool. Human-sized bubbles with people inside, running nowhere. Hamsters. “I thought you might like that,” he says.

  The hamster balls remind me of a psychedelic tumbler at the end of a funhouse, the kind that unceremoniously spits me onto a rickety metal deck every time. “I don’t know…”

  There are so many unusual contraptions here (trapeze swings; bungee trampolines; balance boards; a hulking rock wall) that my eyes can’t find a place to settle.

  Tim stalks up to the circular check-in desk, the hub of the wheel. “We’re going to do the adventure warrior package,” he tells the athletic teenage girl in charge.

  The girl’s expression morphs from surprise to bemusement. She pushes a laminated sheet of hot-pink paper across the desk. “We have a la carte options, you know.”

  This is akin to ordering the four-pound sirloin at a Texas steak joint and being offered the rib-eye instead.

  “We’ll take the warrior package,” Tim reiterates.

  I don’t feel much like a warrior, but I’m inclined to agree: We’re not dead yet.

  Tim shells out the cash, and I lose myself in the exhaustive safety literature. Then we split up—each to our respective locker rooms—where I don the yoga pants and baggy tee my husband has so thoughtfully prepared.

  Ten weeks out from delivery, I’m feeling better than expected—physically, at least. My mental state is another matter.

  “So where do we start?” I ask when we meet near the rock wall. From the sign over the check-in desk, I know that, as adventure warriors, we have two hours of unlimited access.

  Tim gives the wall a solid thump. “How about right here?”

  “Work our way up?” I say, literally and figuratively; rock climbing is the least intimidating activity here.

  “Precisely.”

  I’d rather Tim goes first, but then again, I shun the responsibility. “What do I do?” I ask, locking my fingers with one of the floor-level holds.

  He grins and playfully slaps my ass. “Get in line.”

  * * *

  If there were a way to injure oneself with cotton candy, I’d find it without trying. “My neck hurts,” I tell Tim on the way home.

  It’s obvious he is still on an adrenaline high, this outing having satisfied two of his great passions: fitness and engineering.

  “But you had fun, right?”
he asks, pushing the complaint aside.

  I reach across my chest and massage my shoulder. “Yeah. We should do that sort of thing more often.”

  He lets the comment hang for maybe a whole minute before saying, “I miss you.”

  The words are so honest and tender they catch me. And I know what he means. We see each other every day, and yet there are places in him I seldom touch anymore, places he seldom reaches in me.

  But we want to.

  “With the baby…” I say. “And work…”

  He requires no excuses. “I know.” He nestles his hand into the crease of my thigh.

  There is no need for me to say more, the understanding between us complete. I close my eyes and try to force this neck pain, whatever its source, from my body. If it doesn’t move now, it’s set to pave the way for a killer migraine I can already feel backing in.

  In no time, Tim nudges me. “We’re home.”

  I inhabit the hazy space between wakefulness and sleep. “Uh-huh,” I groan.

  “Come on. It’s late,” he says. “Jenna’s waiting.”

  Some things rouse me from slumber better than others, the thought of my less-than-maternal colleague at the end of her rope with my colicky infant among the former. “Be right there,” I say, but Tim is too far gone to hear. Before my feet hit the garage floor, he shoulders the door open and heads inside. I think he has missed Owen even more than I have, a notion that plagues me with dread.

  By the time I catch up, Tim is already helping Jenna on with her coat. “How was it?” I ask her, still groggy.

  She appears somewhat haggard, but happy and at ease. “Great,” she says. She gestures toward Ally, who is curled up at the end of the sofa, a teddy bear for a pillow. “We had a blast.”

  “What about the baby?” I wonder. “Any problems?”

  She shakes her head. “He only woke up once. Sound sleeper, that one.”