Nine

Sara

It’s been just over a week since Mitch fled. I am going through the motions of my life, but nothing really penetrates the heavy fog that has settled around me.

My calls and texts to Mitch’s cell phone have gone unanswered, so I still have no idea what’s going on in Birmingham or how my husband could possibly have a child old enough to make a phone call without me having known of his existence.

I tell myself this child is the result of some meaningless one-night stand, a single transgression that has suddenly popped up to haunt us. That it’s only Mitch’s shame preventing him from talking to me. But that doesn’t quite explain the secret cell phone. Or how this child, who claims his name is also Mitchell, had access to it.

School’s back in, and I can’t imagine making it through another day trying to pretend that nothing’s wrong. Despite all my years attempting to appear happy and well-adjusted and “no trouble at all” in front of foster parents, I’m just not that good an actress. I need to sit down with Mitchell face-to-face and make him tell me what the hell is going on.

On Saturday morning, I get out of bed early after a sleepless night and begin to dress for the drive to Birmingham.

I’m not a religious person, but I’ve spent the last four days praying that I’m not going to discover that the woman Mitch impregnated has also resurfaced. Or that he’s taken advantage of living in another city to sleep with a string of women who are young and beautiful, or outgoing and entertaining; in short, all the things I’m not.

Because when you’re tall and thin and plain, with a mop of stick-straight red hair that conjures comparisons to Anne of Green Gables and Pippi Longstocking (or a very tall version of Raggedy Ann), you live in fear that the person you love will discover they can do better. Or maybe you fear that they’ve always known that and have nonetheless unaccountably opted for available and grateful.

Dorothy’s at the kitchen table, clutching a cup of coffee and staring morosely out the window. She’s become even quieter since Mitch’s New Year’s Day declaration if you don’t count the condemning looks and tragic sighs. She also looks older and frailer, but then so do I.

“I’m driving to Birmingham to see Mitch. Do you want to come?”

“But it’s Saturday. I thought maybe he’d be coming home. Like he always does.” Her gaze turns accusing. “You know, once he’d had time to get over the unfortunate ruckus you started.”

“That I started?” Dorothy is clearly in denial. But then Mitch and I have almost never argued because I do not make waves. Or “start” things. I excel at giving in and smoothing things over. But a heretofore unknown child? Even the most careful, nonconfrontational person would have trouble staying calm after that kind of revelation. “He hasn’t returned any of my calls. We haven’t discussed what happened in any way.” This in itself is almost as alarming as the “ruckus” Dorothy alluded to. I have no idea what state of mind he’s in. Or how he might be dealing with this mess. “I don’t see how he could just show up as if nothing has happened.”

She sighs another beleaguered sigh. “Does he know you’re coming?”

“No.”

My mother-in-law stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Which is entirely possible.

I’d planned to be on the road long before Dorothy got up, but I’ve been dragging my feet because I have no idea what’s going to happen when I get there. And it occurs to me that she has as much right as I do to find out what her son is up to.

“You’re joking.”

“No.” I seriously doubt I have a scintilla of a sense of humor left.

“And your plan is?”

I shrug even though my stomach twists. A plan would be good. But so far all I’ve come up with is showing up at his apartment and forcing him to tell me what’s going on.

“You must have a plan of some kind. Something you hope to gain from showing up unannounced.” Her tone manages to be both disapproving and matter-of-fact. As if she’s still the efficiency expert demanding a clear and concise accounting of what each move is meant to accomplish.

I doubt there’s anything to be gained. I’m not even sure there’s anything to salvage. All I know is that my husband needs to explain himself and his actions. “He has a child, Dorothy.”

“He didn’t say that,” she replies stubbornly.

“But he didn’t deny it. I need to know what’s really happened and what it means.”

“It can’t mean anything,” she snaps.

“How can you say that?”

Her chin juts. “Because for better or worse, you’re the one he’s married to. You’re his wife. Although you haven’t been acting like it, staying in another city like you have, not knowing what’s going on.”

The blow lands way beneath the belt. If we were in a ring, I’d be staggering to the mat. “Did you know what was going on?”

Her face reveals her fury, her disappointment, frustration at her impotence. All the things I feel. “No. No, I didn’t.”

“Well, then. I’d think we’d both want to understand what’s going on. And if you do have a grandson”—my lips tremble on the word—“I’d think you’d want to meet him.”

Her lips clamp shut. Exactly the way her son’s did. Only she doesn’t run.

We make the trip in silence. I keep my eyes on the road and my hands on the wheel, as if being a safe driver will somehow protect me from whatever is about to happen.

We stop at a grocery store about a mile from Mitch’s apartment, and I call his cell phone one last time while Dorothy downs a bottled water. When he doesn’t answer, I leave another message that doesn’t include the fact that we’re in Birmingham. For all I know, he might flee the building. Or perhaps he already has.

In the grocery store restroom, I splash water on my face and put Refresh drops in my eyes. Then I apply makeup with a hand that’s almost as shaky as my stomach. I really wish bathroom vending machines included emotional armor along with tampons and sanitary napkins.

The condominium complex caters to corporate clients, and though it’s not designed for high rollers, it’s well maintained. I helped Mitch move into his fifth-floor apartment, which overlooks the swimming pool, but haven’t been back since.

“Does Mitch know we’re coming?” Dorothy asks for what I think is the fourth time as we ride up in the elevator.

“I called and texted saying that we need to talk,” I answer yet again. “He still hasn’t responded.”

“And if he’s not here?” she asks, her voice hushed as we step off the elevator.

“We’ll wait. Or I’ll go down and ask the manager for a key. I am on the lease. And as you pointed out, I’m his wife. Worst-case scenario, I ask the manager to text Mitch. Maybe that would get his attention.” My voice sounds less than matter-of-fact.

Outside his apartment, I raise one fist, but I can’t quite find the strength to knock.

If Dorothy weren’t standing beside me with her chin up and her eyes laser focused on the door, I might already be sprinting for the elevator. Instead, I knock briskly. I do not give in to the temptation to yell, “Police! Open up!”

Dorothy and I stare at the door for what feels like an eternity. I don’t think I’m the only one of us willing it to open while praying it stays closed.

I’m about to give up and find the office when the door opens.

Mitch stands in the opening. I wasn’t expecting him to throw his arms around me, but I wasn’t expecting the look of horror on his face, either.

I also wasn’t expecting the adorable little boy who has not only Mitch’s name but his face. And I sure as hell wasn’t expecting the beautiful and hugely pregnant woman standing next to him.

speech·less

ˈspēCHləs/

adjective

unable to speak, especially as the temporary result of shock or some strong emotion

Ex: “I am speechless at this proof of my husband’s infidelity.”

Erin

You know that thing people say about how when the going gets tough the tough get going? I always thought I was one of the tough ones; the kind of ordinary person who steps up in an emergency. That even though I’m small, I could tap into some sort of superhuman strength if I had to pull a stranger from a burning building or foil a kidnap attempt.

Now I think I’m way more wuss than Wonder Woman. Because ever since Josh called off our wedding, I’ve been lying in my childhood bed feeling sorry for myself.

Other than trying to tempt me with food and urging basic hygiene, my parents have mostly left me alone, believing I just need time.

The group chat that Katrina Hopkins, my best friend and maid of honor, set up the day, practically the minute, Josh and I got engaged pings constantly with validation and encouragement . . . You’re the best . . . he sucks . . . what a dick . . . drinks??? . . . wanna do brunch? . . . here if you need me . . . But I don’t have the energy to respond.

My brothers Ryan and Travis have offered to maim or kill Josh. Tyler offered to do both, in whichever order I choose. Only I’m too tired to think about revenge. I’ve loved Josh my whole life, and I don’t know how to stop. Pathetic, right?

I’m lying in bed scrolling mindlessly through Instagram posts of people who have lives when a knock sounds on the door. “Honey?” my dad’s voice calls out. “It’s me.”

Unlike my mother, who has never let a closed door stop her, my dad usually goes away if I don’t answer. Today he walks in and sits down on the chair next to my bed. He’s way too tall for the chair, which is made to fit me, and his long legs stick way out. Kind of like a male Goldilocks trying to cram himself into Baby Bear’s chair. His calm, concerned presence and the worry lines creased into his forehead make fresh tears leak out of the corners of my eyes.

“You know I can’t bear to see you cry.”

“I know. But I’m having a hard time finding the off switch.” My nose starts to run.

“It’s not good for you to lie here crying.” The pain in his blue eyes is clear.

“I know,” I say through trembling lips. “But I don’t really know how to stop.”

He swallows. “You know that frown needs to get turned upside down,” he says in exactly the way he used to when I was little. “Those lips were made for smiling.”

Josh used to say the same thing. Only he told me they were made for kissing, too.

I close my eyes against the tears, but some still manage to squeeze out. I think of my wedding dress, perfectly tailored to fit my body alone. The one I’ll never get to wear.

Then I think about the humiliating visit when Josh came to see me and I’d let myself believe he’d come to say that he’d just been nervous, that he’d come to his senses, that he couldn’t possibly live without me. But he’d only come to apologize and to offer to pay for everything. I told him where he could shove his money and his lame apologies.

A sob slips out.

“It’s all right. Hush now. I know you’re upset. Anyone would be.” My father’s on the edge of his seat, his face panicked. As much as he loves me, it’s clear he’d rather be anywhere but here.

He smooths a large hand over my hair and cups the side of my tearstained cheek. “Your mother didn’t want me to say this, but even though his timing was truly awful, you don’t want to be married to someone who isn’t ready. I always thought you set your heart on Josh way too young.” His smile is crooked. His eyes are filled with love. “You’re only twenty-three, Erin. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

“Oh, Daaaad . . .” I use what little energy I have left to crawl into his lap, where I lay my head against his chest and grab a fistful of his shirt to, hold on to just like I did when I was a toddler. It’s a wonder I don’t suck my thumb. His heartbeat under my ear is just as strong and steady as it was then. “But I had such a good plan. And I stuck to it. Only everything has turned out so disa . . . disa . . . p . . . pointing.”

I squall into his shirt like a child while he pets my head and makes soothing noises. “It’s all right, Erin. Everything’s going to be all right.”

He repeats this until I finally get myself under control.

“You can’t lie here forever,” he says quietly. “You’re going to have to give some thought to what you’re going to do next.”

My eyes tear up again.

“I know how much you enjoyed working for Jazmine. And you do have a degree in sports management,” he says. “Maybe you should give her a call and see if she still needs help.”

My head goes up. Everybody has to know by now. I don’t see how I could walk into that office and face everyone. “I don’t think I’m ready for that. Not yet.” I might never be ready. Maybe I’ll just lie here, trying not to cry, until I get really, really old. Like until I’m forty.

“I know you, sweetheart. You’re strong and smart and resilient. I have every confidence that you can do anything you put your mind to.”

“Except marry Josh,” I say, releasing a fresh flood of tears.

“Love and marriage aren’t things you make happen. And no amount of planning or scheduling can control the universe. In my experience, love most often happens when you’re not looking for it or planning it.”

He stands up easily with me in his arms, then sets me down gently on the bed. “Good night, honey. Try to get some sleep.”

“G’night, Dad.”

I lie there both comforted and alarmed as the door snicks closed. Because if love is something that just “happens,” that means you have no control at all . . . The tears are back, riding on a wave of hopelessness.

How am I supposed to figure out what to do next when I can’t even figure out how to stop crying?