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I shook my head. “No, it was the truth. It’s not fair, but it’s true.”
Carter started toward the sitting area, clearly uninterested in acknowledging this uncomfortable conversation. Marc and I followed behind him.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” my mother said, rising to her feet. “Was there traffic near the farmer’s market?”
I planted a kiss on her cheek. “No, just had a little trouble figuring out what to wear this morning. I’m in the stage between maternity clothes and regular clothes.”
My mother’s gray eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Please don’t apologize. I’m… I’m sick to death of hearing the words I’m sorry.”
My mother’s gaze fell. “Of course.” It took her a moment to recover, but she finally turned her attention to Marc. “How are you doing, dear?”
He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I’m okay. Thank you for asking, Ruth.”
She shook her head, though she was obviously not at all convinced that either Marc or I were okay. “Teddy, would you like us to move to the sunroom? The food’s almost ready.”
She spoke to my father like a child lately. It was only too evident by the scowl on his thin face that he did not appreciate being spoken to like an imbecile.
My father’s brown eyes, the same eyes I inherited, looked up and found me. The scowl on his face melted away, and the dull look in his eyes was replaced by the usual twinkle. “Hey, Rabbit. When did you get here?”
I forced a smile, ignoring the ball of tension in my belly. “I just got here, Dad. Want to go chat in the solarium?”
He nodded, and the dullness returned to his eyes, like a curtain being closed. “Yes. Let’s go to the… I want to go with my bunny rabbit.”
I waited until my mother and father were a ways ahead of us before I whispered to Marc, “I’m going to need you to hold my hand through this. This is the worst I’ve seen him. Did you see that? It was like a light bulb switching on and off. It’s terrifying.”
Marc stood behind me and put both hands on my shoulders as he whispered in my ear, “If it’s terrifying for you, imagine what it’s like for him. The best thing we can do is be strong and not treat him differently. You can do this, baby.”
I sucked in a deep breath and nodded as I let it out slowly. “What would I do without you?”
I immediately regretted these words as I imagined I’d conjured up images of me with another man. Both Marc and I had agreed we would only discuss what we did while we were separated if it was absolutely necessary. We managed to avoid the subject until we got into an argument a few months ago about whether we should learn the sex of the baby.
Marc was reliably playing the part of the more practical partner by insisting we wait to find out until the baby was born. Being the impulsive one, I wanted to know as soon as possible, so I could start putting a name and face in my motherhood fantasies. Of course, this was precisely what Marc was trying to prevent.
In the end, I got my way. And we found out we were having a girl at my four-month appointment. But when we went in for my thirty-six-week check-up a few months later, and they couldn’t find Mira’s heartbeat, I imagined the unspoken words I told you so echoing inside Marc’s head.
On the drive from my doctor’s clinic to the hospital, we got in a fight that would culminate in me admitting to having sex with another man while we were separated. I wanted Marc to hurt as much as I was.
After the delivery, I made Marc come clean about his own tryst. Then, we agreed we’d never talk about it again. Of course, that didn’t stop me from bringing it up the night of Marc’s holiday party.
Sometimes, I felt my job was to hurt Marc as much as I loved him. Sometimes, I felt better when he felt worse. It was a sickness. A vague, sadistic impulse that never quite worked the way it was supposed to.
Brunch in the solarium was a performance, each of us dancing around my father’s cognitive impairment to avoid calling attention to it. But every time I caught him staring off into space, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was trying to make out a distant, fuzzy memory. Or maybe he was simply unable to keep his mind from wandering.
As I passed the dish of maple butter to Carter, my father put down his fork and sat up straight in his seat at the head of the wrought iron table. Marc placed his hand on mine to quiet me as I opened my mouth, ready to ask my father if he needed anything. I pressed my lips together tightly and waited like everyone else. And sure enough, my father had something to say.
His eyes were focused on something in the distance. “I remember… I remember gobbling my food down as fast as I could, so I could go outside and play stickball with the neighborhood kids,” he began, the salt-and-pepper hair that sweeps across his forehead fluttering with the breeze created by the ceiling fan above us. His face split into a beaming smile. “I remember the sound of the wooden screen door slamming shut behind me. Thwack. And my Aunt Viv crying out, ‘Don’t slam the door, boy!’” We laughed softly, not wanting to interrupt him. “And I would run away giggling like a leprechaun. But,” he said, his face becoming serious, “I always stayed gone long enough for her to forget I’d slammed that door. It was important not to incur Aunt Viv’s colorful wrath.”
When I was studying cognitive science at university, my father always made sure to tell me how proud he was of me. Then he’d tack on that he didn’t think I was a born scientist. It was never meant as an insult. But he used to watch me boss around my older sister whenever we played pretend schoolhouse. He said I was a born teacher, and one day I would realize that.
I used to think my father had projected his idea of me onto me. But it didn’t take long after graduating from college to realize he knew me better than I knew myself. He knew most people better than anyone ever knew him.
This was probably why I married a man more unknowable than the inside of a black hole. The worst part was that we might never know my father’s deepest secrets, unless he had a secret journal like Marc.
I emerged from the restroom to find Marc and my mother speaking in hushed tones in the kitchen. “Where’s Dad?”
Marc turned away from me and continued doing the dishes as my mother smiled.
“Your father is upstairs. Ginny took him to bed,” she said, referring to my father’s new caretaker. “If he’s not walking the grounds, he’s usually sleeping these days.”
I glance at Marc’s back, then back to my mother. “What were you two talking about?”
My mother waves off the question. “Oh, nothing. Just stuff about the media. You know how they are. They want to know if the rumors about your father are true.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. Marc was an attorney. My father had a perfectly good publicist who would probably have better advice to give my mother on these matters.
“And what did Marc have to say?” I asked, feigning curiosity.
My mother sighed. “I’m not going to get into this with you, Cassie.”
“What do you mean? Get into what? The truth?” I asked, my voice growing louder. “If you’re talking about Dad or me, I have a right to know what’s being said.”
“It’s about the will, okay?” my mother shrieks. “I… I can’t talk about it right now. Please don’t… Don’t make me talk about it.”
My stomach twisted with guilt as my mother wiped fresh tears from her powdery cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I said, pulling her into a hug. “I’m sorry I overreacted.”
She held me tightly as she sniffled. “It’s okay, darling. I know you’re suffering, too. We’re all just trying to get through this in our own way. But I would never lie to you. I’m just trying to protect you.”
I let go of her and stepped back, as the guilt in my stomach grew into a gnawing embarrassment. I had to tell Marc I'd read part of his journal, or the things I’d read in there were going to consume me.
* * *
April 16th
* * *
Cass m
issed her period. I want to tell her how scared I am. Not just about losing another baby. I’m scared our child will be born with the same shame I carry. Is this hereditary? Will our child be defective?
* * *
As Marc pulled the Audi onto Chestnut Hill Avenue, coming out of my parents’ driveway, I blurted out, “I read your journal.”
I closed my eyes and imagined the black leather notebook with the crisp, ivory pages covered in Marc’s spindly handwriting, so I didn’t have to imagine Marc’s reaction to my words. But as the car slowed and came to a stop, I opened my eyes to see what was going on.
Marc had pulled onto the grassy shoulder that separated my parents’ property from the asphalt road. His gaze was fixed on the steering wheel, his chest rising and falling with each slow, careful breath.
“Say something,” I begged.
He shook his head and glanced at the door handle. For a moment, I was struck with an insane fear that Marc would step out of the vehicle into oncoming traffic. I reached out and placed my hand on his, which still gripped the steering wheel.
He pulled his hand away.
“Why?” he asked, barely louder than a whisper.
“Why?” I repeated his question.
He finally turned in his seat to face me straight on. “Yes. I want to know why. Why you felt the need to violate my privacy. Why, Cass? Why?”
My body began to tremble, but not with fear. I wasn’t scared of Marc’s wrath or the repercussions of my admission. I was terrified of my own anger. I was afraid because I knew I had no choice but to tell him the truth. And I was blind with rage that I had to explain it at all.
