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Maybe I am a bitch. Mike lost a baby too and all I can think about is myself and how to get away from him.
I dress and meet Mike at reception, feeling emotionally drained more than in physical pain. I climb into the passenger side of our rusty Volvo in silence. Mike doesn’t speak the entire ride home, but his grip on the steering wheel tightens to the extent his knuckles are white under the broken flashes of streetlights.
My heart races in my chest. I’ve done things wrong in the past. I’ve seen his temper. But this… He knew I didn’t want a baby. He almost hit me when he found my stash of pills. Now he believes I murdered our baby.
‘Mike. Please talk to me.’Talk to me now, here, in the car, where I know you can’t hurt me.
‘What the fuck do you want me to say? Tell you what I’m thinking? Because right now I’m thinking you killed my baby.’
‘Mike. I was in pain and bleeding. That’s why I fell. I didn’t—’
He reaches out and grabs my thigh, digging in his fingers so hard I yelp. ‘I told you to leave that job. You did this.’
My tears roll down my cheeks again.
‘Stop crying like a crying fucking bitch.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry? You think sorry is fucking good enough?’
‘No. I know it isn’t.’ I say the only thing I think might end this before it begins. ‘We’ll try again. I do want your baby. Of course I do.’
It pacifies him enough to finish the drive. He screeches to a halt outside our house, forcing my body forward against the dashboard.
He storms into the house and I take deep breaths, willing myself to be strong. I push through the front door of the house tentatively. He slams it behind me and pins me against it by my throat.
‘You killed my fucking baby.’
‘I didn’t,’ I sob.
It happens in slow motion. He pulls back his free hand, and though I raise my hands to protect myself, his knuckles connect with the corner of my eye. I scream, part in shock, part in pain, and he lets me go.
I fall to my knees and look up at him, seeing his own shock on his face. He’s never hit me before. He’s bashed me verbally, called me every name for a whore he can, but he’s never hit me.
I stare at him, holding my hand to my stinging cheek, and I find my strength, my resolve.
No more. I’m going.
I stagger to my feet and get a good look at his ghost white face. ‘Rebecca, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay. You’re upset. Go to bed. I’m going to ice this.’
He reaches out his arms and it takes all the strength of my will not to flinch. ‘Becky—’
‘It’s okay, Mike. I’m okay.’
Because in the morning, I’ll be gone.
* * *
When Mike goes to work, I pack what I need. I’m already late for my shift at work. I told Mike I would quit. I won’t. If there’s one thing I know about all of this, I need money. I need a job. And my work is the one place I feel safe and worth something.
I take my suitcase to the train station and ride into London. People stare at my blackened eye on the train. Two women whisper among themselves. I rest my head back against the window, trying to block them out.
I take the underground and receive similar reactions. When I get to work, I walk through the hotel with my suitcase, keeping my head down.
In the kitchen, I say good morning to the staff already in and take my suitcase to Edmond’s office, where I’ll leave it until the end of my shift. Meanwhile, I need to figure out where on earth I’m going to go. Where in the hell I can go that Mike won’t find me.
