by Nicola Marsh
I pause at the bathroom door and glance over my shoulder. He’s staring at my ass while toeing off his shoes and shrugging out of his jacket.
I watch him undress. He means nothing to me. And he’ll soon mean the same to his wife. I need to keep telling myself this because lately I find myself looking forward to seeing him, to have him hold me, to savor his touch. These ridiculous feelings merely accentuate I need to tell his wife sooner rather than later but I’m so conflicted. She’s going to hate me, it’s inevitable. Maybe I should’ve thought of that before I started this?
He doesn’t dally: tie, shirt, belt, pants, socks, almost torn off in his haste to get naked. He’s an impatient man, except when it comes to giving pleasure. Not that I do this for the sex. It’s the few moments afterward, when he holds me and talks to me, that I cherish because for those brief fragments of time I almost feel normal again.
He slips off boxers that are worth enough to feed a family of four for a week, takes himself in hand, runs his palm up and down the length, advances on me.
I back into the bathroom, my breathing shallow. I can never read his mood. It bothers me. Sometimes he’s slow and sensual, other times he’s hard and fast, bordering on rough. I don’t do kink and he hasn’t shown any predilection for it, thank goodness.
“Pretty,” he says, glancing around the bathroom. “Not as pretty as you though.”
Before I can move his hand snakes out, grips the teddy between my breasts, and rips. Then he’s upon me, his mouth devouring mine, his hands delving into crevices, his cock pulsating against my stomach.
Tonight will be hard and fast. He flips me around so I’m facing the mirror. Condoms are everywhere in the cottage and he sheaths himself quickly before nudging my knees apart.
I brace against the marble vanity and he looms over me. Enters me in one smooth thrust. Hard. Deep. Making me cry out a little.
Our gazes lock in the mirror: mine defiant, his demanding. He leans forward, reaches around, and fingers me. I make him believe he’s the one in control when he never is.
His thrusts become more insistent, more brutal, as he slaps against me from behind. We don’t speak for a few moments. We never do. I prefer it that way. No muss. No fuss.
After putting myself back together in Chicago I finally hold the upper hand. I will never be at the mercy of any man ever again.
Last year had been an aberration. A momentary lapse when I’d been duped without knowing it and the fallout had been devastating. It will never happen again.
Now I hold all the power, heady stuff for a broken girl like me.
“Champagne?” he asks, after he’s taken care of business.
I nod. “Please.”
Formal and polite, at complete odds with our frantic fucking.
What would my friends think of me if they knew the truth? About my lover, my life, all of it?
Four
Jodi
I’m a magnet for losers.
Always have been always will be.
Which is why I’m five months pregnant, alone, surviving on noodles and little else in a crappy Manhattan studio apartment barely big enough for me, let alone a kid. My bank account is dwindling, my PA wage barely covers rent and I’m too far along to consider other alternatives even if I could afford them.
That’s the kicker of all this. I didn’t discover I’m pregnant until last week. I had no freaking idea. I thought the nausea was a result of too much caffeine so I quit coffee and cola. As for my expanding waistline, I’d attributed that to bingeing on chocolate and pretzels most nights while glued to Sex and the City reruns like many single girls living in Manhattan. It wasn’t until the annual physical at work seven days ago that I found out.
I’ve been a basket case ever since.
I know who the father is. I tried looking him up online and discovered the bastard had given me a false name. That’s what I get for indulging in my first one-night stand. First and last, considering I’ll be saddled with a brat for the next umpteen years.
Can I really do this? Doubtful, but what choice do I have? I have to give birth to him – the eager sonographer had let that gem slip yesterday – then consider my options. Adoption is the most logical but the thought of giving him away makes me feel queasy.
My mom gave up on me and I still carry the scars; emotional rather than physical, thank goodness, though it had been a close call over the years with her numerous boyfriends. I’d been smart enough to extricate myself from a dire home situation. How could I give up my baby, not knowing if I was dooming him to a similar life of uncertainty and potential abuse?
I’m perpetually worried and confused, my modus operandi these days. I flip the newspaper pages, scanning the print with little interest. Even my usual Saturday morning routine has lost appeal. I can’t concentrate these days, my focus continually shifting from one thing to another, like the fetus is sucking all the intelligence out of me.
I turn the next page.
Freeze.
It’s him.
The photo is small and grainy. It takes up half the size of a Post-it. He’s in profile with a bunch of other dudes in suits. I wish I could see his eyes, see if they’re as penetrating and mesmerizing as I remember, to see that sexy mouth that had done wicked things to me.
My heart rate quickens as I speed-read the article, greedy for details. A bunch of boring stuff about a business award… then I see it.
A name.
I quickly enter it into the search engine on my cell but I’m out of data and can’t afford another top-up until next month. Unfortunately, the name can be attributed to any of the suited dudes in the article so I reread the article, paying closer attention to details. It stipulates that all the suits work for the same company.
I have a starting point.
The glimmer of a plan teases me. I stare at the picture again and the threads of my plan start to weave together, coalesce. It’s daring and unlike me in so many ways, but it could guarantee my future and that of my baby boy if I can pull it off.
Feeling increasingly confident for the first time in forever, I slip an arm around my belly and smile.
“Hey there, Jelly Bean, we’re going to find your daddy.”
* * *
Two hours later, I stand in the sleek yet understated reception foyer of the company named in the newspaper article. I’ve showered, put on my best black dress, applied make-up and blow-dried my hair. Apart from the small baby bump, I look exactly the same as that night he had debauched me every which way.
I approach the receptionist, a cool blonde in her fifties, and summon my best schmoozing skills. They don’t work. She won’t let me see the guy named in the newspaper. Says he’s not in. He’s at home.
Annoyed I’ve been thwarted I leave the building. As I step onto Fifth Avenue, I realize I have another option. While my baby’s father hadn’t been forthcoming with the truth that night we’d screwed our brains out in a deserted warehouse where my employer had been hosting a party, the newspaper article has provided a wealth of information. Including another location…
I’m no rabbit-cooker but for this to work I’ll have to chase him down.
Five
Marisa
I’ve dealt with my second teen runaway today at the Help Center when my cell rings. One glance at the screen and my throat tightens. I hit the answer button and the faces of my girls pop up on the screen as they jostle for position as usual.
“Hey, Mom, how are you?” Trish, the eldest by a minute, blows me a kiss, her dark hair in a single braid over one shoulder, a style she’s favored since grade school.
I miss those days when she’d sit patiently at the island bench in the kitchen every morning, letting me plait her thick hair. She’d be chattering nonstop; about the five books she’d borrow from the library after school, about the latest boy band, about the many ways her twin tortured her.
Terry would always interrupt by poking her sister in the ribs, eliciting much teasing and name-calling tha
t inevitably ended when I lost my cool. These days, my kitchen is quiet in the mornings. I hate it.
Fixing my usual all-is-right-with-the-world smile on my face, the one I’ve honed through many years of practice, I say, “I’m fine, baby girl. You?”
“All good.” Trish makes an A-OK sign with her thumb and forefinger, another endearing habit from childhood that makes the lump in my throat swell.
Terry nudges her aside. “Why do you always get to talk first? You’re such a bossy boots.” She smooches at the screen. “Love you, Mom.”
I laugh, their antics never failing to ease the ache in my chest. I feel hollow inside these days, a strange emptiness that nothing but my girls can fill. I miss them way too much. Crossing off the days until Thanksgiving does little to alleviate the inherent loneliness that plagues me ever since they left.
The hollowness when they’re not around reinforces what I’ve always known. My mother must’ve been a callous, robotic bitch for treating me so badly. I adore my girls, am filled with so much love I don’t know what to do with it when they’re not around. I can’t fathom a mother not loving her own child.
Which is why I escaped mine as fast as humanly possible.
I resent Avery for many things. Providing me with an avenue to flee my past isn’t one of them.
“How are your classes? Grades?”
“Mom,” they groan in unison. “You always ask us that.”
“That’s because I’m interested.”
Terry rolls her eyes. “We talk every week. Not much has changed since the last time you asked.”
Actually, we talk every few weeks but I don’t point it out. The twins – tall, slender brunettes with startling gray eyes the same color as their father’s – are gorgeous. They lead busy social lives apart from their study load. I would never be a nagging mom, no matter how I wish we could talk more often.
Trish holds up her hand. “And before you ask, no, we’re not seeing anyone special.”
She draws out the last two words and Terry falls about laughing.
“Not that you’d tell me anyway,” I say drily and Trish joins in her sister’s laughter. “I wish you were closer.”
I’d flown out to LA once since they’d left but had hated leaving them so hadn’t done it again. They come home for the major holidays and that has to do. When they qualify as doctors I hope they’ll return to the east coast. I’ll have no compunction enlisting Avery’s help in that regard when the time comes.
As if reading my mind, Trish asks, “How’s Dad?”
“You know your father. Busy as usual, running the pharmaceutical company, lending a hand in research, trying to pretend he doesn’t miss doing cosmetic surgery at all.”
Terry smiles. “Sounds like Dad. Tell him we’ll call next Friday night at eight.”
My eyebrows rise. “You need to schedule a time to call him?”
Trish nods. “Of course, otherwise we can never get hold of him. Our schedules clash all the time.”
I know they don’t mean to make me feel bad but for a second I do. So it’s okay for them to call me at work but not their precious father?
I dismiss the thought as quickly as it comes but I can’t ignore the lingering resentment that Avery has everything easy. His life is ordered, structured and perfectly run down to the last minute. Thanks to me.
“Anyway, Mom, we have to go. There’s an extra anatomy tutorial on dissecting the hand today.” Terry wiggles her fingers for emphasis. “Did you know all sorts of conditions affect the metacarpophalangeal joint, and in turn the proximal interphalangeal joints?”
“Whoa. Quack terminology overload.”
They grin, proud that they’ve got me again with their impressive knowledge of the human body. It has become a game to them, to see how long I’ll tolerate their medico speak before I call a halt.
Terry glances at her watch and taps the face. “Not bad, Mom. You lasted a whole eight seconds today.”
“Way to go, Mom,” Trish adds, with a fond smile.
My boss sticks her head around the door to my office and makes a wind-it-up motion with her hand. I nod and return to the screen.
“Sorry, girls, I have to go. Work is calling.”
“Sure thing, Mom.” They blow kisses at the screen again and wave. “Chat soon.”
Before I can respond, they hit the ‘call end’ button, like they can’t get off their obligatory call fast enough. I absentmindedly rub the ache beneath my breastbone. It flares like it always does when I see my girls.
I have to get past this; have to be grateful for the rosy life I lead. I created this picture-perfect life to obliterate the constant worthlessness that plagues me courtesy of Mommy dearest. I am a good person, no matter how invisible she made me feel. And I try to prove it every single day: at work, at home, at the charities I volunteer with, at the many social gatherings I organize and preside over.
My life is wonderful, just the way I want it.
Maybe if I recite it often enough in my head, I might start to believe it?
Six
Claire
After a week of going stir-crazy at home with Dane’s mollycoddling, I’m glad to be back at work. The call comes through as I start my shift. Child abduction from Westhampton Beach. Usually, I’m detached. A good cop never lets emotions get in the way of crime solving.
Today, with a kid involved, I’m not so impartial.
If I had a kid I’d never let her out of my sight. It’s always a girl in my dreams: a pretty princess with eyes as blue as her daddy’s and a riot of dark brown curls. She loves trucks as well as dolls. She climbs and leaps and twirls. She’s mischievous and adorable and smart.
She’s fictitious.
And will remain that way courtesy of my situation.
I hated when the specialist had coolly announced our infertility then presented options for our ‘situation’. Like we could solve it easily. Like it’s a simple matter of choice. I have no choice. I have to accept it and move on.
“Hey, wake up.” My partner, Ron Pensky, snaps his fingers in front of my face. “It’s not like you to be daydreaming on a case.”
“Didn’t sleep well.”
Ain’t that the truth. I haven’t slept more than two hours a night since we learned the news.
“There’s a kid out there depending on us so whatever bug’s up your ass get rid of it and focus.” Ron pulls the car over near the crime scene, already swarming with the usual crew. He turns to me, concern creasing the corners of his eyes. “Seriously, kid, you’ve had a week off for reasons you won’t tell me when you haven’t had time off in over a year. Now you’re back and are spaced out. Want to talk about it?”
“I’m fine,” I snap, instantly regretting it when his mouth compresses into a thin line. “Sorry. I’ve got some personal stuff going on. I’ll be okay.”
He nods but hasn’t lost the wariness. “I’m here if you need me.”
The thought of telling the fifty-something career cop my fertility problems is so unpalatable it makes me tumble from the car in haste.
We approach the scene, the somber expressions of the crew telling me all I need to know.
This is serious.
It isn’t a simple case of a kid wandering off and getting lost.
This child has been snatched.
Ron and I get the preliminaries from one of the CSI team. Eight-year-old girl vanished twenty minutes ago. Parents saw her playing with some other kids near the dunes. The kids say she left with an older man.
My stomach roils. Panic floods me. My usual impartiality is shot to shit at the thought of what that girl will go through. I worked enough abduction cases in the city to know the probable outcomes, none of them good. Back then, I’d feel sadness initially, horror later, concern for my nephews and nieces who had to grow up in a terrifying world where no kid is safe. But I’d been single then and emotionally detached. Now, not so much and it bugs the crap out of me that my personal life is affecting my ability to perform o
n the job.
“Let’s get to work,” Ron says, shooting me a questioning glance when I don’t move.
I can’t. It’s like my feet have sunk into quicksand, my legs too weak to lift them out. When the CSI crew cast me curious glances too, Ron moves. He grabs my arm and all but drags me toward the parents. I know we have to interview them. I don’t want to. I don’t want to see their anguish or hear their retributions. Gut-wrenching.
However, as my leaden feet approach the distraught pair clinging to each other, a miracle happens.
“She’s been found,” one of the crew yell and a collective sigh of relief is drowned out by the crash of waves. “Her senile grandpa showed up unexpectedly and took her for ice cream without asking the parents. They were spotted in Southampton just now.”
I see the mother collapse and the father try to hold her up before he too sinks to his knees. Tears stream down their faces. I’m shocked to discover my eyes are damp too. We have a lot of work to do but Ron knows I’ve reached my limit before we’ve really begun.
“Go wait in the car,” he says, a deep frown slashing his brows. “I’ll take care of everything.”
I don’t take the easy option. Ever. But I’m eternally grateful as I stumble toward the squad car and collapse onto the passenger seat. This isn’t working. Even after a week off, my grief at losing a baby I never had is too raw. Too agonizing.
My job is everything. If I can’t even perform at that… I’m screwed. So I wait, knowing I’ll have to tell Ron everything and dreading it. He’ll say “man up” in that gruff way he has for anyone with a problem. He’ll resort to lame-ass jokes to cheer me up. He may even hug me. I’m not ready for any of it. Until I’ve left my own pity party, I’m not ready for anyone else to RSVP.
Sympathy is for suckers. Which leaves me with a giant S stamped right in the middle of my forehead. I’d only let my personal life interfere with performance once before.
