Rising

by Laurelin Paige

  Three

  Edward

  I rubbed my lips with my thumb, watching the technician as she stuffed the edges of a paper blanket inside the waistband of my wife’s pants. How long had it been since I’d been at one of these ultrasounds? Genevieve was twenty-three now, so about twenty-four years.

  Nearly a quarter of a century ago. What was I doing here now at the age of forty-five?

  Of course, I hadn’t even been a quarter of a century old when Genevieve was born. I’d only been twenty with Hagan.

  I remembered that first ultrasound now, sitting at Marion’s side in a small office in Bordeaux. The technician had used a wand that time, one that was inserted inside, and within seconds the black and white screen filled with a tiny sac of cells that resembled a sea creature more than a human, with big black holes for eyes and a body that curled in on itself.

  I’d been too shocked to register any other emotions. Marion and I had become extremely close over the previous months, but we didn’t even live in the same country. Our time together had been measured in a handful of long weekends on Exceso and several sporadic weeks where I’d flown in to be with her in France. The bulk of our relationship had been over the phone and via email. I’d spend a few minutes every morning detailing a list of things I wanted her to do over the course of the day, then that evening she’d send an email with proof that she had. It had been more work for her—besides the tasks I’d given she had to set up a digital camera, load the photos to her computer, write a detailed message about how the assignments had made her feel. Or, if it were convenient for me, she’d call to tell me about it over the phone while I stroked myself to release.

  It had been a one-sided relationship in many ways, and I had been aware of that. I’d been comfortable with that.

  Until I saw the quick pulse at the center of the creature on the screen.

  “Heartbeat’s strong,” the tech had said. “Measuring at seven weeks, two days.”

  I’d clutched Marion’s hand with mine, and without thinking about it, without imagining what our lives would be, I turned to her and said, “Marry me.”

  And as she responded to everything I ever asked, she said, “Yes, sir.”

  That had been a lifetime ago, and my current wife, whom I loved so intensely that the emotions I’d felt for Marion seemed as small and alien as that embryo on the screen in comparison, was not so agreeable.

  I surveyed her now, her shirt pulled up to her tits, her swelling belly bared. While I’d known there was a baby growing inside her, it hadn’t been real for me until last night when I’d seen the protrusion of Celia’s belly up close. Her body was changing. It had changed. Her breasts were fuller, her nipples darker and more pronounced, and buried underneath her expanding skin, my child was growing.

  I was going to be a father.

  Again, and yet it felt like the first time in so many ways.

  And I was terrified.

  Celia was too, I realized. If she was all the time, she’d done a good job of hiding it from me, but here and now, whatever masks she might have worn had been dropped, and I could see the fear etched on her features, her brows knit tightly above concerned eyes as she chewed on her bottom lip, much the way I was worrying my own with my thumb.

  I dropped my hand and wondered if I could do anything to put her at ease.

  But the barricade between us was thick, and gestures that had once come as naturally as breathing now took great effort. I glanced at her hand, resting on the table at her side, the rings on her wedding finger a blatant show of our commitment to each other. It should be easy to reach out and take that hand, thread my fingers through hers. I could do that. I wanted to do that.

  Instead, my hands sat in my lap, as the technician put on latex gloves and then reached for the transducer. With her free hand, she picked up a white bottle with a top that resembled a mustard dispenser and shook it before turning it upside down above Celia’s abdomen.

  “This will be cold,” she said, squeezing until a tiny drop of jelly plopped out. The tech shook the bottle then squeezed again with similar results. After glancing around the room for another, she said, “I’m sorry. I have to get more gel. I’ll be right back.”

  She hung the instrument in its place on the machine then slipped out into the hall, her footsteps on the hard floor diminishing until the only sound in the room was the gentle hum of the equipment.

  Celia’s eyes darted to the blank screen where her name flashed at the top. Fasbender, C. She let out a heavy sigh.

  And I reached out and took her hand.

  She turned to me immediately, her usual hostility completely absent, and in its place, apprehension.

  “What if she’s not okay?” she asked quietly, as if speaking the words any louder might make them come true.

  “This is a routine checkup,” I assured her. “There’s no reason to believe that everything we see today won’t be perfectly normal.”

  “But the last time…” She shook her head and swallowed. “If I’d set my ultrasound a week earlier, we would have seen that he was already gone.”

  I was a bloody idiot. The miscarriage she’d had years before had happened right around this time in her pregnancy. That was why she’d insisted on making the appointment for her anatomy screening as early as possible, right at eighteen weeks. Of course she was worried about it.

  I scooted to the edge of my chair and put my other palm over the hand that held hers, squeezing gently. “This isn’t last time, bird. This is this time, and you are strong and stubborn, and there is no way that our baby hasn’t inherited that from you.” I considered what I’d just said. “From both of us,” I corrected.

  “Mostly you,” she said with a smile so bright it cut straight to my heart.

  I held her gaze like that for several long beats, and when the door opened, and the technician drew my focus, my hands remained clutched to Celia’s.

  “Let’s try this again,” the tech said. She squirted gel in zigzag lines across Celia’s skin, then spread it out with the transducer and settled it down on a spot near her navel.

  I glanced at Celia’s face, her expression breaking into pure joy before I followed her eyes to the profile of a white figure filling the previously dark screen. Unlike the seahorse that had appeared that first time with Marion, this figure was recognizable as a baby. I could make out so much of it—the curve of the nose, the indent of the eyes, tiny limbs flapping near the head.

  “I can make out the individual fingers,” I said, astonished. Ultrasound had come a long way in the last twenty-four years. The pictures hadn’t been nearly this clear.

  “Ten total by my count.” The technician clicked a few things on her keyboard, drawing lines and inputting numbers. “Length is right on track for eighteen weeks.”

  “She’s growing like she should?” Celia asked tentatively.

  “So far so good. Still a lot to see.” The technician made a few more measurements, this time near the skull. “The head is the right size. Nothing concerning there.” She moved the transducer to the torso then tapped a key and a whoosh, whoosh, whoosh sound came over the speakers. “That’s the heartbeat. Sounds nice and strong.”

  “Told you.” I squeezed her hand again. This time she squeezed back.

  “What are we looking at now? Is that her foot?”

  My throat felt tight. I’d never seen her so excited. I’d never seen her this aglow.

  “Yep,” the tech affirmed. “And I count ten toes.”

  As if on cue, one set of toes stretched wide. “It knows you’re watching,” I said, absolutely charmed by all of it.

  “She’s moving so much.” Celia’s voice was thick with emotion. I didn’t have to look to know she was crying. “Is that what that flutter feeling is?”

  The technician nodded. “Possibly. First-time mothers often don’t feel anything for another month or so, but it’s not uncommon to feel it by now.”

  “And she’s okay? Everything looks okay?” Even though
she could see that the baby was moving around, though she’d heard the heartbeat, Celia still needed reassurance.

  “She looks great.” The tech met Celia’s eyes this time, briefly, before going back to her keyboard. “A few more things I need to see to be absolutely certain. You already know the gender?”

  “No,” I said.

  At the same time, Celia said sheepishly, “We think it’s a girl.”

  I appreciated being included in that “we,” even though we’d never discussed it. It felt hopeful. Like proof that we still were a “we,” despite all that was going on between us.

  I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I’d worried that we weren’t.

  “Well, you’re right,” the tech said. She drew an arrow on the screen. “Right there. That’s the labia. She’s showing off for you. I don’t always get such a clear shot.”

  I chuckled. “Definitely your daughter.” The words said out loud brought levity to the situation. A daughter. I was having another daughter. We were having a daughter. Together.

  My breath got stuck somewhere in my throat, and I had to blink several times before I could see clearly.

  The rest of the ultrasound went by in a haze. Every new view brought another wave of elation from Celia immediately followed by another request for reassurance about the baby’s health.

  I smiled and nodded and smiled and nodded, the whole time trying to ignore the screaming voice in my head that said, This is really happening. You’re a fuck for a father, and currently not any better as a husband, and this is really happening.

  No matter what happened between me and Celia, we were now bonded forever. And I wanted that. I wanted her—both hers. The mother and the child. Why had it felt so much more like being collared than when Marion had gotten pregnant?

  Because then I’d known my place. I’d known who was in charge. I’d known how to be the husband Marion had needed, and I’d been that for her. Until I couldn’t anymore, and she slipped away.

  This time it was Celia who wouldn’t take what she needed from me, and it felt so much like being on the other side, like clinging to the side of a crumbling mountain, my hands clawing in the dirt.

  I had to get a better grasp. I had to hold on to her, the only way I knew how.

  I didn’t come out of my trance until the technician went to print pictures for us to take home and hit another snag. “Out of photo paper. I apologize. The room was obviously not stocked after the last shift. I’ll be quick.”

  The door shut, and I looked down to see I was still holding Celia’s hand in both of mine. Then I slid my eyes up to her face. She was watching me. Studying me.

  She stroked her thumb along the back of mine, and warmth flooded through my veins. “She was beautiful. Wasn’t she?”

  She held her breath after the question, and I could see it like I always could—what she needed from me along with what she thought she needed. They were less often the same thing than she would have liked. It would be easier between us if I could just be a man willing to provide the latter.

  I’d almost tried the day before. I’d gone into the bedroom, meaning to tell her about my meeting with Hudson Pierce. I’d thought briefly that maybe that could be enough—Werner Media, under our control. We could go after it together, she and I, and that would be enough to repair the damage between us.

  But then I’d seen the sex toy, and her—naked and newly clean—and something primal roared up inside me, and I remembered who I was. I wasn’t that man, the one who could step aside or stand back. I was a man who stayed the course. I was a man who didn’t back down, and I had to believe she loved me for that.

  I shifted my hands, halting the gentle caress of her thumb, and looked at her sternly. “She needs a better home than the one we’re giving her, bird.”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “What do you mean?”

  “She needs a solid foundation. She needs her parents to have plowed down the obstacles that could prevent her from having the best life. A rich life. She needs that from her father.”

  “What are you saying, Edward?”

  She understood, I knew she did. Still, she was forcing me to be clear.

  “Tell me who he is.” There was no need to say who he was. A, the nameless manipulator. The man who’d come between us.

  She jerked her hand away from mine, and I instantly missed its warmth. “Oh my God. This today? Right now? I can’t believe you. Seeing our baby didn’t show you what’s really important?”

  Her volume rose, and her tone had grown sharp. I forced mine to remain low and calm in contrast. “It absolutely did show me what was important. Putting a clear end to the past. Tying up loose ends. Sharing the last secrets between us.”

  “So that you can go after someone who doesn’t deserve it.” She rolled her eyes and wiped a wayward tear from her cheek. “You have secrets too.”

  There was only one important secret that I’d withheld—the circumstances surrounding the death of my brother-in-law. I thought it hadn’t mattered, and it hadn’t, until she’d stumbled onto it, and now she was sorely due an explanation.

  But keeping it to myself gave me an advantage at the moment, and I loved her enough to take any advantage that I could. “I’ll tell you mine as soon as you tell me yours.”

  Her frown deepened, and she turned her head away. This was how many of our arguments ended, with one of us retreating into silence.

  This time I kept pushing. “You don’t want our baby girl to come into our family with those things between us.”

  Her head shot back to me. “That’s not fair, using her as leverage.”

  “It seems only fitting since you used her as leverage first.”

  “Not on purpose.”

  That got me, and my composure shattered. “Stopping your birth control wasn’t on purpose?”

  Of course it was that moment that the technician chose to return to the room. From the way her eyes flit from Celia to me back to Celia, it was evident that she’d heard our arguing from the hall.

  Thank God, she had the decency to pretend she hadn’t.

  “Almost got it,” she said as she loaded the paper into the printer. She tapped at the keyboard again and the printer came to life, shooting out a bunch of screenshots she’d captured during the visit.

  Seconds passed as they continued to spit out, tense seconds that felt years long before she ripped the scans from the roll and handed them to Celia. “Here’s a few of the best ones.” She spoke directly to my wife, ignoring me completely as if I weren’t there. “Just a few standard reminders—make sure you’re taking your prenatal vitamins daily, getting enough water, as well as exercise and rest.

  “And keep in mind that any undue stress at this time should be avoided.” Her eyes whisked momentarily to me, just in case the message wasn’t received from her words alone.

  “Got it,” I snapped. “Are we done now?”

  Celia scowled, then quickly shook it off. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you so much for all of this.”

  “My pleasure. You can use that paper blanket to clean up. Just dispose of it in the trash can in the corner.” Leaving Celia to wipe the jelly from her skin, she handed the routing slip to me. “You can give this to the man at checkout.”

  She was out of the room before either of us could say another word, likely eager to get away from the oppressive tension, feeling good that she’d passively delivered a warning to a wife who might be suffering from abuse at the hands of her husband.

  Good thing I wasn’t a real threat. If I had been the type of man that she seemed to fear I might be, Celia could have been beaten for the stranger’s poorly subtexted message. Didn’t she understand how domestic violence worked?

  I glowered at the door where she’d gone, simultaneously wondering if I should go after her to kindly educate her about her mistake and despising her for interfering where she had no business.

  I didn’t even notice when Celia came to stand beside me. “You heard the woman. Und
ue stress should be avoided.”

  And then I felt like an arse. Because obviously abuse didn’t always come in the form of physical violence, and it was true that I had a tendency to bully my wife. It was one thing when she welcomed it. It was safe to say that these days she did not.

  I breathed out deeply and turned to her, wrapping my arms around her, my forehead pressed to hers. “Let me take your stress from you,” I said softly. “Let me carry your burdens. Let me do what should be done for you. For both of you.” Give in to me. I know what’s best.

  She shook her head, extricating herself from my arms. “You wouldn’t want that from me, Edward. I’d be Marion, and you’d be unrestrained. I am who I am, and either that’s good enough, or she is. Maybe neither of our ways are, but it can’t be both.”

  She had a point, didn’t she? There was no pleasing me. I wanted her to challenge me, and I wanted her to bend. I wanted her to have her own thoughts and opinions, and I wanted her to accept when I was right without question.

  She couldn’t be all of those things. No one could, and by that logic, that meant that the someone who had to change in our marriage was me.

  Except it wasn’t that simple. Our dynamic wasn’t that black and white. I could let her win. It just couldn’t be this.

  But she was already gone. Without waiting for me to reply, she had grabbed the route slip from my hand, and I was once again staring at a closing door.

  Four

  Celia

  “I’m going to name Edward as CEO of Werner.”

  My father’s words startled me more than his presence in the kitchen, which was unusual. He was a conventional type man who, though he firmly said otherwise, believed that there were duties best-suited for women, as well as the rooms associated with those jobs.

  In my parents’ house, the kitchen belonged to Lupita. She was the only one who spent any real amount of time in this area of the penthouse. Undocumented and paid under the table when she’d first begun to work for them nearly twenty years before, she was now not only a citizen (with the help of my father’s lawyer), but also practically “family,” according to my mother anyway. I would echo her sentiments if I thought that paying someone a low-end salary to clean toilets and scrape dinner plates was how a person treated family. I supposed, in some ways, it wasn’t any more humane than the way some members of my family treated blood—throw some token gestures of love and then put the rest of the person in a neglected box and you had a Werner daughter. Shower her with affection and then misuse her trust and her body and you had a Werner niece.