“It needs a bit of work,” he said, “but what we get for rent will cover the mortgage with a few hundred to spare.”
For two weeks we spent nights and weekends fixing up the place. Nothing major, just some cabinets from Home Depot, a coat of paint, a few flowers in the yard. Then, just as Ryan had predicted, it rented for almost twice what the mortgage cost.
That weekend we celebrated. We filled the cooler with food and two bottles of champagne and headed for the boat. That night instead of returning to our slip, we motored out to the deep waters of the Chickahominy River and dropped anchor. We made love, not in the cabin where we usually did, but outside on the open deck with the stars above us and the cool night air brushing across our skin.
Afterward Ryan raised himself up on one elbow and leaned over me.
“I think it’s time,” he said.
“Time?” I echoed. “For what?”
“It’s time we got married.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” he said and brought his mouth down against mine.
Less than a month later we were married and on our way to Ocean City for a five-day honeymoon. We stayed at the Grand Hotel on Baltimore Avenue in a room with a balcony overlooking the ocean. We slept late every morning then ordered breakfast from room service. The coffee was served with thick cream on the side and biscuits so light it’s a wonder they didn’t float away.
Ryan and I had good times and bad times; our honeymoon was one of the really good times. As we stretched out beneath the warm sun or strolled hand in hand along the boardwalk, I felt safe and sure of our future.
The Christmas after we were married, Ryan gave me a gift that made me happier than anything I could have ever wished for. It was Christmas Eve, and we had almost finished unwrapping presents.
“Oh, I do have one more gift for you,” he said and handed me a small flat box wrapped differently than the others. “I think this might be what you’ve been wishing for.” Before I opened it, he wanted me to try and guess what it was.
I took the box in my hands, felt the feathery weight of it and then gave it a gentle shake. No sound.
“A sexy nightie?”
He shook his head and gave a mischievous grin. “Something better.”
“Better?” I felt the weight of the box again and gave a few more guesses. “A scarf? Socks? Panties?”
He laughed. “Not even close.” Then told me to go ahead and open the box.
I anxiously tore the paper off and lifted the lid. It was a tiny white baby sweater and pinned to it was a note that said, “It’s time.”
It took all of about ten seconds for the thought to sink in. I looked at Ryan and said, “Does this mean—”
He nodded happily. “It’s time for us to start our family.”
I gave a squeal of joy that could be heard for three blocks in any direction and leaped across the pile of presents into his arms.
That Christmas was the happiest ever. Up until then we were like two separate cinder blocks sitting side by side. A baby was the mortar that would hold us together forever.
A New Year
Thoughts of another baby made it almost impossible to sleep. In ten days Morgan would celebrate her first birthday, and although Ryan and I never spoke of her she was seldom out of my mind. By this time next year she would probably have a sister or brother. I closed my eyes and tried to picture them getting to know one another, meeting for play dates, running around the playground while LeAnn and I sat on the park bench and chatted happily.
Try as I may, I couldn’t bring that picture to mind. It was a fantasy beyond imagination. Over the course of the past year I had spoken to LeAnn twice, and while she was pleasant enough there was never a mention of my coming to see Baby Girl.
Both times I’d called on the pretext of asking about Morgan’s health.
“Have there been any problems with her digestive system?” I asked.
LeAnn said there had been a few, but they were working through them.
I dredged up a few more questions about the surgeries but didn’t ask the things I really wanted to know. I didn’t ask if her eyes had turned the blue of mine, or she’d learned to sit or crawl, if she had gotten her first tooth or if she was learning to say Mama.
“If she ever needs me—” I’d said.
“Don’t worry,” LeAnn replied. “We’ll be sure to call.”
Of course I never heard from her. That’s how these things work. When the judge asked if I knew I was giving up any and all claims to Baby Girl, that’s exactly what he meant. I no longer had the right to even speak to her.
The only thing I hadn’t given up were the memories of holding her in my arms. They were mine to keep. For a lifetime.
That night it was near dawn when I finally fell asleep, but for the first time in more than a year I was deep down happy. I would never have Baby Girl, but Ryan and I would have a child of our own. A child Ryan wanted. A baby with a name, one who would fill the empty spot in my heart.
The early months of that year seemed gloriously happy. We were together and working toward the same goal. In February Ryan bought a third investment property, another house that needed work. Once it was fixed up and rented, we again celebrated. It was too cold to go out on the boat, so we went to dinner then came home and made love.
Afterward we lay in bed, my head on his shoulder and my leg looped across his.
“With a few more investment properties,” he said, “we won’t be so dependent on your income. Maybe you can cut back and work from home after the baby is born.”
I smiled at the thought, but the truth was I liked my job.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I can handle the baby and my job.” It seemed everything was now going our way, so I was brimming over with exuberant confidence.
Ryan laughed. “That’s my girl.”
I remember how we called it “the baby” and spoke as if it were a sure thing, something already ordered and just waiting to be shipped.
That winter we made love often. For the first three months it was spontaneous and exciting, but when March turned into April and I still wasn’t pregnant I began to worry. I started planning our lovemaking sessions. I counted the days between one period and the next and took my temperature four times a day, trying to zero in on the exact moment of ovulation.
Twice I called Ryan at work and asked him to come home so we could have sex.
“I’m ovulating,” I said.
The first time I asked he came home, but I guess his mind was still back at work because he couldn’t do it. It was the only time something like this had happened, and he was none too happy about it.
“This is supposed to be fun,” he said, “but you’re making it feel like work.”
We didn’t make love for the remainder of that week. When we went to bed he turned on his side with his back to me. I knew he was aggravated with me and with himself, so on Saturday morning I packed a picnic basket and suggested we go to the boat.
Ryan enjoyed a lot of things: fixing up old houses and turning them into an investment, bowling with his buddies, car shows, action-packed movies and a dozen other things, but most of all he enjoyed being on the boat. We spent the afternoon on the river, jumping off the boat, floating in the tube then climbing back up the ladder so chilled our teeth chattered. That evening we fired up the portable hibachi, grilled hamburgers on the back deck and washed them down with cold beer. It was near midnight when we finally climbed into the bunk and fell asleep.
On Sunday morning we made love, and everything was back to normal.
The second time I called and asked him to come home so we could work on making a baby, he refused.
“I’m busy, Cheryl,” he said. “It can wait.”
Obviously just thinking about it was a turn-off for him, because he waited five days and by then I was well past my time of ovulation. When he finally did want to make love, I turned on my side and ignored the way he was kissing my shoulder and sliding hi
s hand along the curve of my hip.
Love is a funny thing; it can be strong enough to overcome the greatest obstacle imaginable or so fragile that it breaks apart from a few harsh words or careless slights.
After six months of trying to conceive and failing miserably, I began to believe this was God’s punishment for not appreciating the first baby He’d given me. I went back to thinking of Baby Girl and missed her more than ever. Some days I’d be driving and have to pull to the side of the road to wipe the tears from my eyes because of thoughts that I’d never have another child.
Whenever I mentioned this to Ryan, he’d roll his eyes as if he couldn’t bear the thought of discussing it yet again. In my mind I felt we’d never discussed it—not openly and honestly. There had been a few digs and nasty innuendos but never once a heartfelt conversation.
To his way of thinking it was just the opposite. He saw it as a subject that reared its ugly head more frequently than he could tolerate. Just the mention of Baby Girl or the difficulty I was having in getting pregnant started an argument.
“This is all your fault!” I’d scream. “If you hadn’t made me give up my baby…”
It was an open-ended dispute that went nowhere. More than once Ryan stormed out saying I was impossible to live with.
That summer our relationship seesawed back and forth. We’d be good for a week or two, then I’d get my period and go back to being resentful again.
We didn’t just suddenly stop making love, but the instances grew further and further apart. I’d have a headache. He’d be exhausted. It stopped being a pleasure and slowly turned into a symbol of failure. Our failure to make another baby.
Once a relationship is broken, sometimes there is no way to fix it. For a while we both tried, but in time I guess we gave up trying. Instead of whispering naughty things in my ear, Ryan talked about replacing the screen door on one of the houses or buying a secondhand washer for another one.
The black lace nightie he’d bought me on our honeymoon was now stashed in the bottom drawer. After work I’d slip into a comfy pair of pajamas and curl up with a book. Little by little, piece by pitiful piece, the magic we once had slipped away.
Several nights a week Ryan had dinner out, supposedly staff meetings with the employees from one store or another. With him not home, I’d meet Nicole and we’d go out for a drink. Towards the end of September, he started going to the boat alone. The first time he said it was because he needed to work on the engine.
“Do you need help?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nah. This is stuff I’ve got to do myself; there’s no sense in you just hanging around.”
That Friday evening he tossed a few things in a gym bag and took off. I didn’t see him again until late Sunday.
The next weekend it was the same thing. Even after the weather turned cold, he found reasons to go to the marina once or twice a month.
Two weeks before Thanksgiving I stopped in to see Rosalie, the owner of Marcello Travel.
“Are you interested in running ads for the holiday season?” I asked.
She said she was, and we started to chat.
“I’ve got a great bargain on a five-day Thanksgiving cruise,” she said. “If you’re interested I can get you a nice discount.”
I started thinking about it and decided it would be a perfect getaway for Ryan and me. We’d be away from work, away from the boat and have nothing to focus on but each other. Maybe we could get back to what we once had.
That afternoon I called him at work and said, “Let’s go out to dinner tonight. I’ve got something—”
He cut in before I had a chance to finish. “We’ve got to talk.”
That was it. There was nothing more. Given the serious tone of his voice I thought maybe he was losing his job or one of the investment houses had burned to the ground.
That evening he got home a few minutes after eight, later than if he’d come straight from work but earlier than he’d been coming home. I had the chicken noodle casserole already made and was keeping it warm in the oven.
“I thought you’d be earlier,” I said. “Dinner’s ready.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“It’s chicken noodle casserole—”
“I want a divorce.”
His words came at me like a shotgun blast. Of all the disasters I’d imagined, this was the one I hadn’t expected. We’d weathered the worst of times, and now our relationship was nowhere near as contentious as it had been during my pregnancy.
When you hear something you don’t expect, you tend not to believe it.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
He looked square into my face and said, “I want a divorce. I’m sorry, but I just don’t love you anymore.”
This wasn’t an argument. There was no yelling or screaming. There was not even the bristly sound of anger. His voice was flat and unemotional, which made it all the more painful.
I could deal with anger. In an argument we’d poke bitter barbs back and forth then move on to finding neutral ground, but this wasn’t an argument. It was simply a statement of fact.
Later on I would think of a thousand different things I could have said, but at that moment all I could do was stammer, “Surely you’re not serious?”
“Yes, I am. I’ve been thinking about this for a while and I’ve come to the realization that I just don’t love you, so it’s better…”
I could see the finality in his face. This was not a moment of anger, it was a decision he’d come to without ever consulting me. It was said with the same brittle, hard voice he’d used when he said he didn’t want the baby.
Only now he was saying he didn’t want me.
I turned away, walked into the bedroom and pulled the door closed behind me.
The Next Move
Ophelia Browne once told me most of life’s heartaches come from having the wrong expectations.
“People, for instance,” she said. “You get a glimpse of them in one light and expect the whole to be like that one tiny little glimpse, but it seldom is.”
She’s right about that. In the darkest times of our being together, I kept thinking of Ryan as he was that first night when he took me to the Fourth of July fireworks. I stood his image right next to Daddy’s and expected him to be the same. But he wasn’t. Daddy was a man who loved his baby girl; he’d never dream of giving me away because he wasn’t established enough. I should have seen that ugly side of Ryan when he couldn’t find room in his heart for our baby, but I didn’t and now I was going to pay the price.
As much as I hated Ryan, I hated myself even more. I hated myself for being stupid enough to believe he was like Daddy, and I hated myself for letting him be the master of my life. I let him be the one to decide everything. Absolutely everything. Not just what investments to buy, but when to get married and even when to start a family.
That night I decided I’d had enough. The next morning I would leave this place. Walk out, and, God willing, never look back. I didn’t need Mama or Ryan or anybody else to take care of me.
I’d take care of myself.
~ ~ ~
Ryan slept on the sofa that night, and in the morning I waited until he was gone from the house before opening the bedroom door. Once I was certain he was no longer there, I went into the kitchen to fix a cup of coffee and saw the stove still set on warm. I pulled the chicken noodle casserole from the oven and dumped it in the garbage, dish and all.
The previous night I’d cried for hours on end, but after I’d run out of tears it finally dawned on me: crying didn’t change anything. If I didn’t want to live with this kind of unhappiness, then the thing I had to change was me. When I finished my coffee, I went back to the bedroom, pulled my suitcases from beneath the bed and started packing.
It’s funny how the things I’d once thought so important now didn’t even warrant a second look. The only things I took were my clothes, a few books and the picture of Daddy and me that sat on the dresser.
A framed picture of Ryan was right beside it, but I left that one behind.
It wasn’t until I got behind the wheel of my car that I realized I had nowhere to go. With my suitcases piled in the trunk I spent the day driving around calling on customers, the same as always. Not once did I mention what had happened or let a tear come to my eye.
At four o’clock I called Nicole at the office and asked if she could meet me for a drink.
“I need some advice,” I said.
We met at Taco Joe’s, sat in a booth and ordered margaritas. As soon as the waiter left us alone with our drinks and a basket of corn chips I told her, “Ryan and I are getting a divorce.”
She gulped down a swallow of margarita. “Did you say divorce?”
I nodded. “That’s right.” Every nerve in my body was tied in knots, but I was trying not to let it show. With the same unemotional tone Ryan used when he told me, I repeated, “He just doesn’t love me anymore.”
“That’s bullshavicky!” Nicole said. “What’s the real reason?”
“That’s the reason he gave me. He looked me right in the eye and said he wanted a divorce because he doesn’t love me anymore.”
“Bullshavicky!” she repeated. “There’s more to it than he’s saying. My bet is he’s having an affair.”
“Ryan? I don’t think so. He’s too wrapped up in that boat, his buddies from work, watching over his investment proper—”
“Bullshavicky,” she said again. “Bullshavicky” is Nicole’s favorite word, and at times like this she let it fly loud and clear. A middle-aged woman sitting at the table across from us turned and gave her a look of annoyance.
I leaned across the table and whispered to Nicole, “Lower your voice.”
She rolled her eyes and kept right on going. “Ryan’s out for Ryan. He wouldn’t leave you unless he had something better.”
Baby Girl Page 8