The Million Dollar Divorce

by RM Johnson

  Nate grabbed his pillow, doubled it, stuck it under his head, and forced himself not to think about it any longer. He was married now, he had a wife, and whether she wanted them or not, Nate told himself, they were going to have children.

  He smiled mischievously to himself, looking over at his beautiful wife sleeping beside him. He would just have to continue pushing her till she conceded.

  Every month afterward, he mentioned them getting pregnant, but was always met with the same answer. “Not yet.”

  There were times at night, when he stood in the bathroom over the sink, after brushing his teeth, that he would eye Monica’s little clamshell birth control case, and he thought of stealing it. He would flush the tiny tablets down the toilet, or chuck the whole thing out the window. Maybe he could get some replacement pills. Something much weaker, or possibly even sugar pills. He had a close doctor friend. The idea wasn’t too far-fetched.

  But he didn’t want to trick his wife into having his children just because she was able to trick him into waiting.

  He would just continue asking, and Monica would eventually agree, Nate was sure.

  It happened exactly as he had thought. He did finally convince her to have his children…only three years later, as Monica had said from the very beginning.

  After Nate was given the free-and-clear signal, he was ecstatic, and joyfully tried getting his wife pregnant for eight months, but nothing happened. Nate began to worry if there was something physically wrong with him, thought of making a doctor’s appointment to make sure everything was okay down there.

  Thankfully, the week he considered this, Monica told him that she was pregnant.

  To say it was the happiest day of his life was an understatement.

  All he could think about was the child he would soon have.

  Nate dragged his wife shopping immediately for maternity clothes, for baby clothes, toys, and anything else he thought the child might need in nine months.

  “We don’t even know what we’re having,” Monica said.

  “We’ll buy both girl and boy stuff, and whichever one we don’t have, we’ll donate the other to charity.”

  Every night, Nate was in bed, sitting up with the lamp burning, reading through baby name books, saying names softly to himself, determining whether or not they would fit his child.

  Two weeks after Monica announced she was pregnant, Nate had found the exclusive nursery school their child would attend. Two weeks after that, Nate had set up the child’s college fund. And at a month and a half into her pregnancy, he decided it was time to clear out and paint that extra bedroom in their penthouse they were using for storage, and transform it into a nursery.

  Everything was going wonderfully till, at the two-month mark, Nate found out his baby had died.

  3

  Work for Monica was hard today, not because of the effort she had to put forth but because of how much her husband was on her mind. She tried calling him a couple of times at his office, but his secretary told her that he would be in meetings all day.

  Whether or not that was the truth, or just a message Nate told his secretary to relay to Monica, she wasn’t sure. After work, Monica dutifully made her way to the gym, not feeling like it, but knowing that it would help relieve some of the stress she had been feeling.

  Once she was there, her mind was not on what she should’ve been doing, but still on Nate, so she cut her routine short, telling herself that she needed to get back, hoping to straighten things out with her husband.

  After returning home, she stood frozen just outside their front door, her key in her hand, ready to insert it into the lock but unable to.

  It was almost seven o’clock, so she figured Nate was home, and she wondered what he was doing in there—that was, if he hadn’t left. Nate had her questioning their situation so much that on any given evening, upon walking into their house, Monica was prepared to find him gone. Not just gone for dinner, or down to the store, but gone for good—his drawers yanked from the dresser, hanging out empty, his home office cleared of all the things he couldn’t work without, his favorite sculptures pulled off the mantel and shoved into a box.

  It was just so hard living like this, Monica thought, feeling weak all of a sudden and leaning against the frame of the door, dropping her face in her hands, trying not to cry.

  She had done everything in her power to try and make things right between them, but he would not hear her when she spoke, would not relax and let himself be held when she tried to wrap her arms around him, and would not even make love to her when she told him that she needed to feel him inside her just to feel as though everything would someday be the same again.

  But she knew why he was behaving that way toward her. She had lied to him when she knew she shouldn’t have, and he had found out.

  After a week of her period not showing, Monica had gone to the drugstore to buy a pregnancy test.

  Upon getting home, she took the test and stood over the sink, the little wand trembling in her hand. She waited, holding her breath, staring intently into the little box that would display one line if she wasn’t pregnant, two if she was.

  She just had to be, she told herself, and felt a droplet of sweat fall from her forehead and run down her face.

  A moment later, the results of the test magically appeared before her eyes.

  The test read positive.

  That moment, everything seemed fine. Monica and Nate were in love, the company that her husband had started a year after their marriage was thriving, and they would finally have the family that he wanted so dearly. At least, Monica thought that until the day of her doctor’s appointment six weeks later.

  All during the morning while her doctor ran tests on her, Monica felt something wasn’t right. It seemed it took forever for the doctor to come back with the results, leaving her in the cold white-walled office, trembling, and worrying about the outcome.

  When Dr. Ferra finally returned, she said, “Mrs. Kenny, you took a home test to confirm your pregnancy. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how long do you think you’ve been pregnant?” Dr. Ferra asked, opening a folder in front of her, looking down at it.

  “What do you mean, think?” Monica said. “I am pregnant. The test was positive.”

  “Mrs. Kenny,” the doctor said, looking up sadly from the folder, “is your husband out in the waiting room? Did you bring him with you?”

  “No, I didn’t bring him with me.”

  “Do you think you’d like to try him at work, or maybe arrange to come back tomorrow?”

  “Dr. Ferra, what I want is for you to tell me what is going on, because you’re really starting to scare me,” Monica said, feeling a great deal of anxiety now. “Is everything all right with the baby?”

  “Mrs. Kenny, I’m sorry to inform you of this, but there is no baby.”

  Monica could not believe what she had just heard. All of sudden she felt as though she could not breathe.

  “I’m pregnant. The test I took confirmed that.”

  “Home tests can be wrong.”

  “But I missed my period. It’s been two months. I’ve been sick, I felt my body changing!”

  “Mrs. Kenny—”

  “I’m pregnant!” Monica said, breathing heavily, sounding on the verge of hysteria. “Maybe your test is wrong!”

  “Mrs. Kenny,” Dr. Ferra said in her most soothing voice. “It’s not wrong. All the tests we ran, on your blood, your urine, they confirmed what I was suspecting. You haven’t had a period in two months, and you felt those changes in your body, because you were going through premature menopause.”

  Monica sat up in her chair, shock on her face.

  “I’m only thirty-one years old. That can’t be! How can I have not known that?”

  “Have you felt fatigued, depressed, irritable lately?”

  “No.”

  “Have you had trouble sleeping at all, felt moody, or experienced hot flashes?”


  Monica thought, and said, “I’ve been feeling warm sometimes, been sweating a little at night, and sometimes I can’t get to sleep, but—”

  “Those are some of the symptoms.”

  “So what are you saying?” Monica asked, afraid to know the answer. “If I’m not pregnant now, what do I do to get pregnant?”

  Dr. Ferra looked at Monica oddly, concerned that she seemed to not understand what exactly was being said to her.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kenny. There’s nothing you can do. You cannot get pregnant.”

  Monica all of a sudden gasped for air, felt light-headed, then saw everything start to darken around her. Her body fell limp, and she would’ve fallen to the floor if the doctor had not rushed to her side and grabbed her before Monica completely fell from the chair.

  “Mrs. Kenny.” Monica heard her name being called.

  She opened her eyes, saw Dr. Ferra’s face slowly coming into focus.

  “You’ve almost fainted. Sit here, and I’ll get you something,” the doctor said, quickly rushing away from her.

  But Monica could not sit anywhere. She had to get away from there, away from that place, away from the woman who told her that all that Monica believed true was not.

  Monica found herself bursting out of the doctor’s office, running down the hallway, tears streaming from her eyes as she sidestepped and bumped into people.

  She crashed through the doors of the office building, bright sunlight hitting her in the face, the doctor’s last words, proclaiming that she would never get pregnant, never carry a child, ringing in her head.

  Monica ran toward the edge of the long flight of concrete stairs, preparing to run down them two or three at a time, get as far away from this place as possible. But she misstepped, twisting her ankle, and was knocked off balance, her body falling forward, plummeting, tumbling down the flight of jagged stairs—the sky, the ground flipping over and over again—until her body landed hard and flat on the cement sidewalk. Her eyes were open, her arms and legs spread out wide. She did not want to move them. Didn’t know if she could.

  “Outside of some deep tissue bruising, you’ve escaped that fall without injury,” a graying ER physician had told her two hours later. “You’re fine,” he said, writing out a prescription for Tylenol 4, tearing it from his pad, and handing it to her.

  Monica took the slip of paper and thought, no, she wasn’t anywhere near fine.

  She cried all the way home, continued to cry once she got there. It was mourning for the loss of the baby that she knew was growing within her. The baby that she and her husband had spoken about every night and every day. The baby that she had grown to love, but a baby that some doctor said was just a figment of her imagination.

  When Nate got home that evening, regardless how much Monica tried to pretend she hadn’t been, he could tell that she was crying.

  “Baby, what’s wrong?” Nate said, after setting his briefcase down, rushing over to her, and placing an arm around her.

  Monica had been preparing for this moment for hours, trying to find the strength to say to him what she had practiced over and over again in the mirror. She knew it was wrong, but she would lie to him. She had no other choice.

  “Sweetheart. Please tell me,” Nate said. “It didn’t have anything to do with the doctor’s appointment today, did it?”

  How she didn’t want to, but she had to lie to him, Monica told herself. If for no other reason than to buy herself time, prove that doctor wrong. They’d get pregnant again, and he’d never find out about any of this, Monica had to trust. And then with as much sincerity as she could manufacture, Monica said, “I didn’t get to the appointment. I had an accident.”

  “Are you okay?” Nate said, moving closer to her, grabbing her by her shoulders.

  A tear spilled from her eye. “I’m fine. But our baby…”

  Nate’s eyes widened, his grip tightening on her.

  “…our baby died.”

  Now, as Monica stood outside her door, wiped tears from her face, she told herself that she and her husband would get through this. It would take some time and understanding, but they would make it through.

  Monica unlocked the door and walked in.

  Her nose was immediately assaulted by the smell of paint fumes, and she wondered what was going on.

  She set her purse on the table by the door and called out her husband’s name.

  “Nate,” she said, taking the stairs, after looking around on the first level and finding nothing. Maybe her husband was getting some work done, but she couldn’t imagine what kind of work, and why.

  On the second floor, Monica turned the corner, the smell even stronger now. She walked down the hall, saw the nursery door open, and when she walked in, she could not believe what she saw before her. Everything was painted black, the floorboards, the crown molding, even the ceiling.

  Nate sat in the center of the room, wearing old jeans and a torn T-shirt covered with paint. His back was to Monica, his knees brought into his chest, his arms roped around them, his face lowered.

  Monica just shook her head and wondered how much more of this could she endure—they could endure.

  “And this is what, Nate?” Monica said, walking into the room.

  Nate did not turn around, just continued to stare at the floor like a first-grader sent to stand in the corner for misbehaving.

  “I said, and this is what, Nate!” Monica said, raising her voice.

  Nate didn’t respond, just pulled himself from the plastic sheet that covered the floor, stood, turned, and without acknowledging Monica at all, proceeded toward the door. He passed her as he had been doing for the last two weeks since he had found out all she had lied about. But it had all become too much for Monica now.

  As Nate passed her, Monica reached out, grabbed his arm, spun him around, hauled off, and slapped him hard across the face.

  Nate stumbled two steps back.

  “Don’t you just fucking walk past me as though I’m not standing here,” Monica cried. “Two weeks! Two weeks I’ve been apologizing to you, explaining to you why I did what I did. But it’s just all about poor Nate,” Monica said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Just the pain you’re experiencing, everything you’re going through. But what about me? I wanted children too. I wanted the family. But you won’t hear any of it. You won’t look at me. You won’t talk to me. You won’t even fuck me. Is it that bad, Nate? Is it that fucking bad!”

  Nate said nothing, just stood there, the expression on his face mostly blank, save for the bit of pity Monica thought she had read.

  “Do you want a divorce, Nate? Is that what it is?”

  “And what if I said I did?” Nate said.

  Monica was shocked by his response, but knew she could not show her alarm. She simply said, “Then I’d sue your ass for everything you’re worth.”

  4

  Nate Kenny pressed a palm against the glass of the newborns’ nursery, lowered his head, feeling a deep depression cover him. The night he found out about the death of his baby was the worst night of his life. After his wife gave him the news there on the living room sofa, he cried, wanting to know the reason, wanting to know how she fell. Why didn’t she see the stair? Why didn’t she watch where she was going?

  It all sounded very accusatory to him, looking back at it now. It sounded as though he blamed her for the death of his child. A child that he had been waiting all his life for. But accidents happen. He knew that, and he told himself that he would have to apologize to her for how he acted.

  He remembered shedding tears with her for what seemed like hours, and on that couch she held him, telling him it would all be all right.

  Upstairs Nate and his wife showered together, standing in a tight embrace as steaming water crashed against them.

  In bed, Monica asked if he wanted to talk. There was nothing he had to say to her. He was angry with her. She moved close to him, but he rolled over, turning his back to her. He knew it wasn’t her fault, but s
till, something made him feel that she had allowed his child to die.

  Now in the nursery, Nate raised his head to look at one of the babies. It was a little girl, one that looked just like he imagined his child with Monica would’ve looked.

  Nate would come to the nursery every couple of days after his wife told him that they were pregnant. After work he’d stop here and admire all the beautiful babies. Every now and then, one would smile up at him, and he would smile back, tap on the window, and wave.

  Occasionally a father would come by, look through the glass smiling, and Nate would ask him, “Which one is yours?”

  The man would inflate with pride, and point to the beautiful child that was his baby.

  Nate would tell him how his day was coming soon—“My wife is pregnant right now!”—and how they should be expecting in about six months.

  Every man that he had spoken to told Nate that seeing his child for the first time was like a religious experience, like being reborn himself.

  Nate would ask if they could further describe that feeling, and they would make meager attempts, but they always said something like, “It’s beyond description. I can’t explain it. But you’ll see for yourself.”

  Nate would nod his head in anticipation, knowing that was true.

  But that wasn’t the case anymore. His wife would never have children, and Nate would never experience that feeling.

  He remembered her telling him that night that everything would be all right. That they would get pregnant again, that she would give him the children that he always wanted. But that wasn’t true either.

  It was all a lie.

  He remembered coming home after lunch two days later, feeling sick. He lay across the living room couch, trying not to think of his dead baby, but he could not stop himself.

  He shut his eyes tight, tried to focus on something more pleasant, when the phone rang.

  “Hello,” Nate said, sounding annoyed. “Yes, Monica Kenny lives here.” He stood up from the couch, concern on his face, after hearing what the woman on the other end asked him. “What do you mean? Appointment for what? Are you sure?”