The Baby (The Boss #5)

by Abigail Barnette

  We didn’t have sex. The ghost of Neil was very much between us in the bed, conjured by our mutual longing for him. We held each other, and just having the contact of human skin against mine, heat and weight there to reassure me when I woke in the night, healed me in a way I could never have anticipated.

  El-Mudad stayed with us for four days. He helped care for Olivia, encouraged me to spend time with Mom—whose judgmental eyebrows came out once or twice at the idea of my brutally hot friend staying in my house while my husband was hospitalized, but otherwise, remained sympathetically put away—and most importantly, to take care of myself. He would somehow manage to make getting dressed in pants that didn’t have an elastic waist sound like a great time, and praised me for what should have been obvious things like curling my hair or putting on makeup.

  I hadn’t realized how much of my normal life I’d abandoned. Sure, there was probably something insidiously anti-feminist about the idea that I couldn’t be happy without mascara and a curling iron, but I felt like I was slowly crawling back to a constant in my new, ever-changing normal. I loved getting made up and doing my hair, so if that was enough to make me feel good, I wasn’t about to worry over where my self-care fit with my personal politics.

  We were eating breakfast before El-Mudad had to leave for the airport for his late afternoon flight, when the house phone rang.

  I frowned at the way the caller ID displayed the name, repeating to myself, “AR Spec?” as I hit the button. “Hello?”

  “Sophie?”

  I hadn’t heard his voice in a month. My own shook. “H-hi.”

  I heard Neil breathe a sigh of relief. “It’s so good to hear you.”

  I tried to call you! You wouldn’t accept! I screamed internally. But I didn’t know what his state of mind was, and I didn’t want to hurt him or make him think that I didn’t want to talk to him in the future. “It’s good to hear from you, too. How are you?”

  “I’m…in a mental hospital.” He laughed softly. “But I’m not a danger to myself, anymore.”

  My chest ached. “So, does that mean…”

  “Am I coming home? No.”

  I wanted to slide down the wall, wailing.

  “But I want to see you, Sophie. Would you consider coming up for a visit?” he asked hopefully.

  I knew I had to say something, and I knew it had to be yes. I closed my eyes and tried to get myself under control. “Yeah. Of course.”

  “Sophie…” he began, and I knew he’d heard the tears I was holding back.

  “So much has been going on around here,” I lied, forcing cheerfulness into my tone. “I can’t wait to tell you all about it.”

  “Will you bring Olivia?” he asked. “How is she doing?”

  “She’s fine, she’s doing… She’s so great, Neil. Really.” I considered his first question. “But I’m not sure—”

  “You’re right,” he interrupted. “Maybe, this first time, it should be just you and I. It isn’t that I don’t miss her—”

  “I would never think that.” God, we were just talking over each other in a disastrous and unhelpful effort to not hurt each other’s feelings. “I hope we’re not this nervous when I actually see you in person.”

  He chuckled, and the sound banished some deep fear inside me that I hadn’t even recognized. This whole time, I’d been imagining Neil as the angry man threatening to divorce me in the emergency room. I wouldn’t let that go unremarked upon forever, but he was talking to me the way he’d talked to me before that night, and that made me much less afraid.

  “I have to go,” he said, falsely chipper. “But I can’t wait to see you. Doctor Harris’s office will contact you with the details, all right?”

  “Yeah, fine.” I dug my nails into my palms. I will not cry. I will not cry. It had been weeks, and a three-minute phone call wasn’t enough.

  “Sophie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you.”

  He loved me. Despite his threats, despite the fact he’d tried to end his life, he still loved me. And, despite all of that, I still loved him.

  “I love you, too,” I said, and I hoped he felt every ounce of truth in it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “When considering what to wear to visit your husband in an inpatient mental health center,” I began, talking to myself in the mirror as I knotted my lavender silk scarf loosely. I frowned and pulled it off, tossing it aside. Nope, I definitely wasn’t qualified to write a “What To Wear To The Psychiatric Treatment Facility” article.

  It doesn’t matter. You’re not meeting the Pope. You’re visiting Neil. Still, I stripped down to my underwear and started over. I picked an ecru broomstick skirt and paired it with a nude camisole, then layered a long, light white sweater over it. There. Not too fancy. Not trying too hard. But not too gloomy looking.

  There really should have been a list somewhere of what to do on one of these visits. Google had turned up plenty of information about how to get a loved one committed, but not much about what to do once they were.

  I felt awful not taking Olivia with me, but this was something I had to do on my own, first. I didn’t know how I was going to react, and I had to be able to worry about myself today. Also, after a month, she’d finally stopped looking around for her afi, and I didn’t want to confuse her when she saw him and he was gone, again. She’d been delighted when Mariposa had returned, so it wouldn’t hurt for them to have some time together without me.

  The facility was upstate, all right. So upstate it was easier to fly to Montreal and drive back into the United States to see him. I’d finally gotten out of my poor, helpless me phase and found the number to Neil’s former personal assistant, who’d helped me figure out how to get the plane set up with a crew and a flight schedule and everything.

  “Don’t you have an assistant?” he’d asked as an aside during one of our calls.

  “No, mine is running away to live in the Bahamas.” I’m sure I’d sounded sarcastic, but it was true. Mode would be losing Penny Parker, Perfect PA, in just a couple months.

  I really do need to hire someone, I thought as I looked over my outfit. Then, I stripped it off and went with the green, white, and black abstract print wrap dress I’d put on the first time.

  You have to leave, sometime, I scolded myself as I stepped into some sensible-yet-stylish black pumps.

  My weird travel path took me from the helipad at the house to JFK, from JFK to Montreal-Trudeau, from Montreal-Trudeau back to just south of Champlain. Though I was a country girl, it was unsettling to be around so much empty woodland after spending so much time in New York. Being with a driver I didn’t know very well made me paranoid, too. Nothing was really stopping him from abandoning me in the woods and stealing all my credit cards or something.

  Great, let’s just heap that on top of every other irrational fear we’ve had today, brain.

  Dr. Harris had promised that Arbor Rest offered privacy, and the setting certainly delivered. The only signage was a stone post with the address printed vertically on it, beside a gated drive. We pulled up, and a uniformed security guard met us, coming automatically to the rear passenger window. I hit the switch to roll it down.

  “Ma’am,” the guard said with a nod. “Visiting someone?”

  “Yes.” I reached for my phone and opened the email I’d received from Dr. Harris. “Patient sixteen.”

  I wasn’t even supposed to use Neil’s name at the gate. I wondered how many super high-profile people were in the place.

  The guard nodded and motioned over the roof of the car. “Have a good visit, ma’am.”

  The gate opened, and we rolled through, down a winding driveway. The late morning sun dappled the lush grass and was so bright that the fluffy clouds overhead made shadows as they passed over. What a lovely day to be seeing my husband for the first time in weeks.

  Why was I so nervous? This was Neil. My husband. The only man I’d ever really been in love with, who’d called me the other half
of him and who’d said that I’d made an indelible mark on his soul.

  The hospital itself looked like something a Disney Imagineer would come up with to represent an English country manor in Epcot’s World Showcase. The paved drive circled an elegant fountain, which drew the eye away from signs that read “Ambulance Admissions” and “Employee Parking”.

  The driver opened my door, and I got out, mumbling a thank you. Though mental health shouldn’t be a taboo, I was surprised and ashamed at how I felt over the fact that I was here to visit my husband. Like he would still be okay if I’d been a better wife.

  The lobby was more hotel-like than hospital-like. Several professionally dressed women sat at computers behind a long, marble-topped mahogany reception desk. Skylights illuminated the entryway, which had a lovely fountain topped by a huge, spherical flower arrangement. I almost expected a bellhop to step out and ask me if I needed help with my bags.

  I crossed the marble tiled floor, my heels clicking with every step. That sound always made me feel more confident. I drew my chin up and my shoulders back and walked to the desk as though I weren’t feeling like a total failure as a wife.

  One of the women looked up and gave me a polished smile. “Good afternoon.”

  Was it afternoon? I’d been on a plane since seven in the morning. “Hello. I’m here to see patient sixteen.”

  “Of course.” She adjusted her computer screen. “And you are Ms. Scaife?”

  “Oh, so I don’t get a cool code name?” I joked, but the woman didn’t appear to have any discernible sense of humor. She just stared at me. My face got hot. “Yes, I’m Ms. Scaife.”

  “May I see your I.D.?”

  I pulled out my wallet and handed my license to her, hoping she didn’t notice my hand shaking.

  She handed me a clipboard with a form to sign, legally securing my silence should I recognize another of their VIP patients. I scribbled my name, vibrating with impatience. I just wanted to see Neil as soon as possible.

  She gave me a smile and a nod and said, “You’re going to go to those double doors, and when you hear the buzzer, you can go through. Security will meet you on the other side. They’ll search your purse, and any prohibited items will be held for you until you leave. Any items of an illegal nature will be confiscated and reported to the police, so if you’ve brought any narcotics, psychotropics, or prescription drugs not prescribed to you, you may wish to leave those items in your vehicle.”

  At least they gave fair warning. I assumed they didn’t like to deal with prosecuting people smuggling drugs in to the patients but still wanted to make sure it didn’t happen.

  After I went through the security check—during which my nerves ramped up to eleven, even though I knew I wasn’t carrying anything illegal—the guard directed me to a waiting area with big windows, thin wire criss-crossing to form tiny diamonds between the panes.

  Neil was here, somewhere in this building. I was closer to him than I’d been in weeks. That made me even more afraid. What if he decided, now, now that I was here, that he didn’t want to see me, after all? I couldn’t imagine walking out with any kind of dignity. I would be a wreck.

  I wished I would have checked the time on my phone or the clock on the wall to know how long I’d been waiting, because what had felt like hours had probably only been minutes. I fiddled with my wedding ring, twisting it back and forth.

  If you do this, we are over, do you understand? I’ll file for divorce in the morning!

  “Sophie?”

  His voice jolted me out of the horrible memory, and I looked up to see Neil standing in the doorway.

  In the past, I would have launched myself at him for a crushing hug. But he seemed like a stranger, now. He looked like the same old Neil, standing there in jeans and a t-shirt as though he’d just come inside from a morning walk on the beach.

  I stood, but a force field of nerves held me back.

  “You look…” I shrugged. “I thought you’d be wearing a uniform or something.”

  “No, no uniform, as such,” he said, looking down at his clothes. “Though, I do usually wear sweatpants. I got dressed up for your visit, so you could tell Rebecca that I’m wearing real pants.”

  It was meant to be a joke about my mom’s fashion criticisms, but neither of us laughed. Silence fell between us like a guillotine’s blade.

  “You’re looking well,” he tried. “I like your dress.”

  “Thanks. I’m trying to impress this hot guy I know.” I smoothed down my skirt. Every word made this somehow easier, but it felt like we were taking the first steps in a marathon. I couldn’t fool myself into believing that we were going to feel “right” together any time soon.

  He played along with casual lift of his shoulder. “I’m certain he’s quite impressed. But it might help if you described your underwear for him.”

  “I think it’s better to leave that a mystery. That way he could imagine that I wasn’t wearing any.” I was, but I’d let him suffer. “Seriously, though. Do I still look good? Because I’ve been eating nothing but trash lately, and my skin has been breaking out like crazy. I fell asleep with my cheek on a Pop Tart last week.”

  “Yes. You still look good. And not just because I’ve been locked up here for a month.”

  “You’re not locked up,” I reminded him. “The involuntary hold expired. You could come home whenever you wanted to.”

  “No, I can come home when I’m ready,” he corrected me gently.

  I took a breath. “And you’re not ready, yet.”

  “No, I’m not.” He gave me a small, sad smile. “That’s not what you wanted to hear.”

  “It’s not,” I admitted. “Look, I knew that this was just a visit. I didn’t come here with any rational expectation that you would see me and remember how much you missed me and that would be that, you’d just be all better.”

  “But your heart did,” he said for me.

  He took slow steps toward me, and I swayed a little on my feet. I wanted to go to him, but I couldn’t move. I waited, my breath held, until the toes of his shoes were just inches from mine. He took my hand and held it between his own. I had to steel myself against the rush of relief I felt at his touch, because I knew with that relief would come the pain of loss again when I left him today.

  “Sophie…” he began, pausing as though he struggled with the words. “I do miss you.”

  “You wouldn’t take my calls. I thought—”

  “I didn’t take your calls because I was incapacitated by my homesickness. I want more than anything to be at home with you, with Olivia—is she walking, yet, by the way?” he asked nervously.

  My joy at being able to share the news with him, finally, burst like sunshine through my face. “No, but she did stand up all by herself!”

  He smiled but faded into seriousness again, quickly. “I want to come home. But I can’t do that until I’m well. If I left here just because I missed you, I would have come home the very first night I was able to.”

  “The very first night, you threatened to divorce me.”

  Damn it.

  I’d made an unofficial promise to myself that I wouldn’t bring that up. We would have to discuss it, sometime, but it was more about me and him than just him, and right now, he had to concentrate on himself.

  Plus, I wasn’t ready to hear whether or not he planned to make good on that threat.

  “I did say that.” He looked down at our still-joined hands. “I’m sorry, Sophie. It would be so easy for me to make an excuse—”

  “Don’t. I shouldn’t have brought it up,” I said quickly.

  “If you’re not ready to forgive me, I understand.” He laughed softly. “Forgiveness has been a big theme in therapy, these days.”

  “It’s not that.” I squeezed his hand. “I’m not angry with you. I hope you don’t plan on following through with it—”

  “No, no,” he interrupted, lifting one hand to cup my cheek. “Never.”

  Despite every in
tention I’d had of staying strong, I leaned into his touch and closed my eyes. I struggled to control my voice. “I just want you to get better. We can worry about everything else later.”

  “You say that a lot.” His gentle admonishment opened my eyes. “And I’ve let myself take advantage of it for too long. I haven’t been a good husband to you, Sophie.”

  “You’ve been sick.” It wasn’t fair to hold that against him, but I would need therapy of my own to get past my anger toward him. He didn’t need to know that, now. He needed my support.

  He nodded and dropped his hand awkwardly to his side. “This is all… Doctor Harris thinks we should go back to couple’s therapy after this.”

  “Doctor Harris is a smart guy,” I agreed.

  And, somehow, like that, Neil and I were both smiling.

  I’d thought it would take forever. Hours of heartfelt conversation, months, possibly years of rebuilding from scratch. Learning to love each other, all over again.

  But I’d never stopped loving him, and he’d never stopped loving me. Unpleasant things had gotten in the way, but they were hurdles, not walls.

  “This room is depressing,” he announced suddenly. “Would you like to take a walk?”

  “Can we?” I looked around for hidden cameras or something.

  “Yes, it’s allowed.” He grimaced. “Finding a hidden nook somewhere for hidden nookie, however…”

  “Abstinence is the best medicine?” I joked. “It wasn’t like you had much of a sex drive before you came in here.”

  “You’d be surprised how quickly that all comes back online when you have a will to live, again. The need to procreate comes rushing back with some sort of primordial vengeance.” He sounded as tense as he would have sounded if he’d been deprived of sex for weeks, a year ago.