by Jen Waite
“Nope. Are you?”
“Yes. I think so.” I gripped his hand tighter.
“OK, Mom.” The doctor settled into a stool at the foot of the hospital bed. “Whenever you feel the next contraction coming, I want you to ride the wave and push with it, OK? It will feel like you’re having a bowel movement. That’s where I want you to push from, OK? And, Dad, take Mom’s leg right there, and push it as hard as you can toward her chest when I say so, yep, just like that, you got it.” She glanced at the monitor. “Are you ready? I see a contraction coming.”
“Wait, wait,” I cried during my first push, “I need to use the bathroom.”
“Nope, that’s the baby, honey. You’re doing fine, keep pushing.”
“Marco, am I shitting myself right now?” I asked.
“I don’t think so, babe, you’re doing great,” he said as the doctor called from below, “OK, this baby is coming fast and furious. I need you to give me a really big push, OK?”
“Wait, I can’t do this,” I said, searching for Marco’s eyes. “I can’t do this,” I said again as I felt an enormous pressure trying to rip through my pelvis. The monitor made a beeping noise beside me. “We need this baby out on the next push,” I heard the doctor tell the resident.
“I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.” I clawed at the oxygen mask that had just been placed over my nose and mouth. Marco lifted the mask from my face and held my gaze. “One more push, baby. You got this. One more push and she’s here.”
—
FIFTEEN minutes after my first push, a long, skinny, red-faced, wrinkled baby was placed on my chest. “She has my eyebrows, babe.” I stared at the huge eyes below my chin.
“She has your everything, baby.” Marco laughed and brushed damp hair off my forehead. “Thank God.”
AFTER
THE next morning, while Marco is sleeping, I shove fleece booties on Louisa’s feet and hoist her onto my hip. We walk the three blocks to my parents’ apartment under the glaring winter sun. I am still deciding whether to tell my parents about last night as I climb the last set of stairs to their apartment.
“Dad had a good idea,” my mom says apprehensively as I walk through the door. “He thinks you should call the hotel in Portland and see if Marco made any calls from the hotel phone.”
Ever since I found the phone calls in our Verizon account, there has not been a single call or text between Marco and the Croatian. I am satisfied that the emotional affair has ended. In the dark depths of my mind, I wonder how they are still communicating. Somewhere else, in the same depths, I am still clawing for the truth. If I can just know for sure, I will know what to do.
“OK,” I say. I am no longer hungry for the eggs sizzling on the cooktop. I walk numbly into the second bedroom and close the door.
“Hi, I stayed at your hotel with my husband a few days ago. We completely forgot to take the bill with us and we need an itemized receipt for tax purposes,” I say brightly to the woman on the other end of the line. I give her my husband’s name and my e-mail address. She says no problem, that John from accounting will e-mail that right over to me. My hands are shaking as I refresh my e-mail over and over. When the e-mail appears, my hands are shaking so badly that I almost drop my phone. I hungrily click the PDF attachment. My vision is blurry, and adrenaline courses through my veins. One phone call. Fifteen minutes long. The first night of his stay. The numbers that I know by heart glare back at me.
“Anything?” my dad asks when I walk back into the living room. Both my parents look at me expectantly.
“Someone’s going to e-mail me the bill,” I say. I am not ready to divulge this last bit of information. I am not ready because it will be the same thing as saying, “My marriage is officially over.” So instead I say, “I’d like to go pack a small bag while Marco is still sleeping. I think I’m going to stay over here tonight with Lulu.” I know my parents will not object to this.
“That’s a really good idea,” my dad says, and my mom nods.
I lace up my boots quickly. I take the steps down to the lobby of the building three at a time and take a left out of the front door toward my apartment. I walk the three blocks to our building as quickly as I can over the ice and snow. My insides are jumbled. There is one wave of rage and one wave of sorrow mounting inside me. They collide together and then crash down, the white foam bubbling into one giant mass. When I reach our building, I slow down. I climb up the stairs slowly. These are the last moments before the end of my marriage, before I am officially on my own with a newborn baby. There is nothing that Marco can say to make this transgression OK. To explain it away. And suddenly it dawns on me. It never mattered if there was physical cheating. My marriage was over when Marco laughed his sweet, incredulous laugh on the other end of the phone on January 20.
I turn the key slowly and push open the door. The living room is cluttered with blankets and baby clothes. I take a deep breath and walk down the hallway into our bedroom. I watch Marco sleeping for a few seconds. Even in his sleep now, he looks so different to me. A stranger. The thick, dark, unruly hair that I used to stick my fingers in to scratch the scalp below is now neatly slicked back. It even looks darker. Or is this just my mind playing tricks on me?
“Marco,” I say. His eyes twitch. “Marco, wake up,” I say loudly. He groans and rolls away from me.
“What?” he mumbles to the wall.
“You called her from the hotel. You called her from Maine.” My voice is strong and steady and emotionless.
“What?” He groans again. “Jen.”
“Yes, Marco?” I say, daring him to explain.
He rolls toward me. His eyes are open. He sits up in bed and rubs his eyes. “I only called her the first night,” he says. “I told you, I like the attention.” His voice is weary. He’s not even putting up a fight.
“You called her from Maine,” I repeat. I sink to the floor. I hug my knees and tell him that I want a divorce. I get up off the ground slowly and start to pack a bag. While I am robotically shoving underwear and sweaters into my bag, Marco says from the bed, “I just want you to know something. For your own peace of mind. I never touched her. I know you don’t believe me, but I want you to know that, even though I know our marriage is over. I never touched her, Jen. I respect you too much.”
Tears fall from my eyes. I’m not sure if I am crying because I believe him or because I don’t believe him.
“I just need to do one thing before I leave,” I say. I walk over to the bed, to this stranger in our bed and push my nose into his one last time. He doesn’t say “Your nose is perfect” this time. He doesn’t say anything at all, and so I walk back down the hallway, down the stairs, out of our building, and onto the street.
—
THAT night I sit with my mom on the couch in their living room, nursing Louisa, and tell her about the phone call from Maine. I tell her that my marriage is over. She shakes her head and turns toward the window. I think she is going to rail against Marco, but when she turns her head back, her face is blotchy and she is crying. “It just doesn’t make any sense,” she says through a sob. I have a flash of murderous rage. I understand in that moment a tenth of what my dad has been feeling these past few weeks as I’ve cried out more tears than it seems possible a human body could hold. Why he is silent except for the grinding of his teeth.
I climb into bed with Louisa. She falls asleep on my chest, and tonight I keep her there instead of carefully transferring her to the swing. I wake up to her squirming and reach for my phone. I see that it is 5:00 A.M. and that I have a dozen text messages from Marco. Placing Louisa on my breast, I scroll through the messages. The last one is from a few minutes ago, and it reads, “Can this really be the end? All I ever had was good intentions. There’s no point in me being alive anymore. Everyone would be better off if I was gone.”
“Marco?” I write. “Are you still awake? Where ar
e you?” My heart pounds and everything is wiped from my mind except for, Please be OK.
“Still at work,” comes his reply. “I don’t want to go home.”
“You should go home and sleep,” I write, unable to stop myself from giving this wifely suggestion. I wait for his response. Two minutes go by. Then five. Finally, I see the dot-dot-dots, and I know he is not alone. He was waiting for the right moment to text, when she wouldn’t notice. All of my worry and fear is replaced by rage. Louisa has fallen asleep nursing, and this time I gently drop her into the swing. I call the restaurant phone. It rings once, twice, three times and then Marco’s slurred voice fills my ear.
“Hello?”
“Is she there with you?” I will be made a fool of no longer.
“No. Jesus Christ.”
“Say it, Marco. Say she’s not there.”
There is a long pause, and then his voice comes out muffled and slurred, “She’s not here.”
“I love you, Marco.” Fuck you, Marco.
“Mhmm,” he mumbles.
“I love you,” I say again sharply. We have almost never ended a conversation without saying those three words. I am going to call his bluff once and for all. There is another long pause and then, “I love you, too.” I hang up. I am seething. Murderous thoughts race through my mind for a few minutes. I check the Croatian’s Facebook and Instagram profiles and see that she has already unfriended and unfollowed Marco. I take screenshots of the last dozen messages Marco has sent me and fire them off to her. I am acting on pure seething anger now. I want him to be left with nothing. I click my phone off and lay my head down on the pillow. It feels like I have been sleeping for five minutes when my eyes open to sun spilling through the curtains and Louisa’s squawks.
The next few hours I feel sick to my stomach. What if I’m wrong? Maybe she wasn’t there. Maybe they are just close friends. Around noon, I am playing with Louisa on the bed. My parents have gone out to get lattes from the fancy, boutique coffee shop around the corner. I hear a buzz and squint at my phone on the end of the bed. I see “Viktorija” at the top of a text message and my heart starts to pound. I grab my phone and swipe open the message. Her response flashes onto my screen: “What a pussy lol. I am so done with him.”
My pulse quickens as I read her next messages. “I have a limit and he crossed that limit last night. He is a pathetic excuse for a man. He wanted the best of both worlds, but he fucked with the wrong blondes lol.”
“Will you please tell me once and for all if the two of you had a physical affair?” I write.
“You know everything now. I am so glad I will never have to see that piece of shit again after his last day. Looks like history is repeating itself.”
History is repeating itself? I stare at the last sentence for a moment before it sinks in. Tania. The part of the story of how Marco and I met that I don’t tell anyone, not even myself. The night he showed up at my door with his small black duffel bag and dark circles under his eyes: “Tania saw texts between us and went insane. She hit me and threw my phone. Can I please stay with you for a few nights until I can find my own place?”
He explained that they were still living together and, even though he had broken up with her dozens of times, Tania just wouldn’t let him go. I push the memory from my mind and look back to my text messages as two new messages come in.
“Nat was the smart one. She left him.”
How does she know that? And then I realize. He told her the same stories that he told me five years ago.
We text for a few more minutes. I tell her that it’s very hard to believe that this was strictly an emotional affair.
“You really need to ask your husband these questions, not me. But I will tell you, we did not have sex. I’m going to go have brunch now with my friends. Good luck.” I stare at the cryptic message. You fucking child, I want to scream. This is not a game.
Instead I click my phone dark, pick Louisa up off the bed, and walk around the apartment in tight circles until my parents get back.
“We should leave,” I sputter as they walk through the door. I tell them about the Croatian’s messages. “She said they didn’t have sex,” I say nervously.
“She’s lying,” my dad replies. “She’s a horrible person. She’s immoral.” His voice rises louder and louder. “She knew he had a wife and newborn baby. They’re both horrible people, and they’re both lying to you, Jen.”
“I don’t know.” I fidget with my sleeve. “I just want to go.”
My dad calls a local U-Haul location and reserves a truck for tomorrow. We wait until Marco has left for work and then the four of us march toward my apartment. My dad splits off and takes the Subaru to the Home Depot to get some moving boxes. I pass Louisa to my mom and turn into the Rite Aid to buy formula. Louisa has begun to erupt into screams as soon as I pull her from my breast, and I am no longer confident that I am producing any milk. As I stand in line to pay, a buzzing starts in my ears. My limbs feel so heavy. There is a thick blanket of fog that is making its way through my body and it feels nice. “Wake up,” I say to myself. I dig my fingernail into soft arm flesh. I barely feel anything. I am sure. I am absolutely positive that this is a dream! I have a delicious feeling suddenly that I am going to wake up at any moment. “Oh, please, please, please wake up,” I scream to my brain. I approach the cashier.
“$10.56.” The young peroxide-blonde cashier glares at me. I have a five-dollar bill and a wad of ones. I stare at the ones. I am never, ever going to be able to count to six. I don’t know what to do so I hand over all my money and smile.
She looks at me curiously and counts the money methodically, handing me back two ones and a handful of change.
“Oh, whoops.” I laugh as if we’re sharing a joke, but it comes out strangled. She looks at me again and then says, “Next.”
My whole body now feels as though it is filled with cement. I walk the block to my apartment very slowly, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, marveling at the laces on my boots. None of this is real, I think, and let out that strangled sound again.
My mom and I start to pack up my apartment. I am not sure how much time has passed, but my mom is putting her hand on my shoulder. I am staring at Marco’s side of the closet, and I’m not sure how I got here or how long I’ve been staring.
“Jenny?” my mom says softly. “Why don’t you gather your passport and Louisa’s birth certificate. Any important documents. OK? That’s all you need to focus on. Dad and I will take care of everything else.”
“OK,” I say back.
I watch my parents through glazed eyes. Why are they moving in slow motion? I look around my apartment. The apartment I have shared with Marco for three years. I hear my dad ask my mom, “What about those?” pointing to the four Christmas figurines lined up on the side table in the hallway. One for me, Marco, Seb, and Louisa.
“Oh, those are our first family Christmas ornaments. Marco’s mom gave them to us. We’ll put them on the tree again next year,” I almost say, and then stop myself.
I hear my mom whisper, “Just leave them. She doesn’t need those. We have plenty of ornaments at home.”
I trudge slowly down the hallway into the living room. “I’m so sorry,” I say blankly. “I have to go.” I go to take Louisa from her bassinet.
My mom steps in front of me and says gently, “We’ll bring Louisa over in a bit. We have the formula.” She places her hands on my shoulders. “Can you walk back to our apartment?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” I say, and open the door.
“Jen . . . do you want to put on your coat and shoes?” my mom asks, like it is the most natural question in the world.
“Oh, yes, of course,” I say again. Buzzzzzzzzzz, I hear as I lace up my boots and zip up my big down coat. As I walk to my parents’ sublet, I focus on pulling my coat zipper up and down, up and down. I have
never noticed it in such detail before, and it is fascinating. It slides so easily up and down, up and down. The teeth and the zipper fit together so perfectly. Suddenly, I am standing at the front door of the sublet.
I rummage in my pocket for the keys. I stare at the keychain and then at the lock. Oh dear. I could have sworn I have unlocked this door a dozen times, but looking from the keys to the lock now, I realize that it makes absolutely no sense. There is no way that any of these keys will fit this lock. In fact, suddenly I can’t tell the difference between the four different keys. They are metal with teeth and they all look the same. I decide to try every key in the lock. I am about to give up when the door clicks open.
“Yes,” I say out loud, and draw out the ssss. That’s a nice sound. “Ssssssssssssssss,” I say again. I am so tired and it would feel so good to sleep. I smile to myself and walk to the bed. My head hits the pillow. Sleep.
—
THE next morning, my parents wake up with a purpose. They are dressed and heading out the door to load the U-Haul as I stare up at the white ceiling from bed.
“I’ll text you when we’re almost done loading everything,” my mom calls to me as they walk out the door. I am bringing Louisa over to say good-bye to Marco. My dad will drive the U-Haul to Maine, and my mom, Louisa, and I will follow behind him in the Subaru.
I stare at the ceiling for a few minutes longer and then stretch my arms and legs and fold my body into a sitting position.
“Hi, Lulu.” She stares at me from her swing. “We’re starting a new life today,” I tell her with a chipper smile, and then turn away and cry. I wash my face and get dressed, change Louisa, and slip her into a fresh onesie and tiny gray leggings.
“Ready,” my mom texts.
I carry Louisa in her car seat down to the lobby. I click her into the waiting stroller, and we roll toward the front doors. The glass doors framed with metal are heavy, and I clumsily open one and shove the stroller through, but it gets caught on the protruding doorframe. A woman coming down the block runs to hold the door open for me.