A Delicate Truth

by McKnight, Zoe

  “I tried, but she just showed up and then she said some sideways shit, and I couldn’t help it.”

  “Are you positive it was her? I mean, how would she know Morgan’s blood type and all that?”

  “Ed,” I say.

  “What about him?” Elle shrugs, then it dawns on her. “Oh, he’s a surgeon, right?”

  “And he works at St. Barnabas.”

  “…Where you had Morgan. Ah, makes sense. But I don’t know how you can ever prove that.”

  “I don’t know … but I can’t think about her right now. I just need to figure out how to fix this.”

  I pace back and forth in her room.

  Elle reaches inside the mini-fridge and grabs a tiny bottle of rum. “Which do you want?”

  “I need way more than that.”

  “Then let’s go downstairs to the bar. I’m buying.”

  I tell her I don’t want to be around other people. I want to be able to talk with abandon, without worry of a nosy bartender overhearing us. Not that anyone could even believe my story. I can hardly believe it myself.

  She reaches for four more bottles then pours a concoction and hands it to me. I take it down in three swift gulps. “I just don’t know where his head is at.”

  Elle sits Indian-style on the bed. “It’s only been what? A month? You can’t expect him to even know how he feels about it yet.”

  “I can’t take the silence. It’s killing me. I have no idea what he’s thinking.”

  “It’s probably best he doesn’t say anything. You won’t like anything he has to say right now.”

  She’s right. Vaughn’s words can be lethal. But still, I need to hear his voice.

  “It’s going to take time, Blair. Lots of time and maybe even some therapy. This is just the beginning. You guys have a long way to go.”

  “But he's still here,” I say, struck with a sudden surge of optimism. This happens often. I go from fits of absolute despair to bursts of hopefulness. “Or rather, I'm still here. You know I always said he would kick me out if he ever found out, but he hasn’t. That means something, doesn’t it?”

  “Don’t get caught up with a false sense of security.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t assume it means that you’re in the clear.”

  “But if he hasn't left me by now…”

  She looks at me as if I’m a child. “You really don't see it, do you?”

  “See what?”

  “Morgan. If he leaves you, he loses Morgan.”

  “But I would never stop him from seeing her, no matter what happened between us. He knows that.”

  “Blair,” she says with exasperation. “He has no rights to her. None at all. His only connection is through you.”

  “You think that's what it is?” I replay his words from our meeting with Dylan, ‘Because of Morgan, and only because of Morgan…’ “You’re right. He hates me. He’s only here because of the baby. ”

  She doesn't tell me I’m wrong, although that's exactly what I need to hear. But she won't lie to me. That's the one thing I both love and hate about her.

  It’s one thing to believe something in your heart. It’s another to have it confirmed by another person. I’ve never been one to face reality head-on. I’ve always found a way to somehow delay it, set it aside for the moment or plain ignore it. But now it’s staring me in the face, and Elle has blocked all of my escape routes.

  “What am I going to do?” I say. “I have to make him love me again. How do I do that?”

  “Time. It's going to take time. You can't force it.”

  “There has to be something I can do. Every day that passes I'm losing him more and more. I’ve got to save my marriage. Maybe if I—”

  “I love you, Blair. You know that, but I have to be honest. Aren’t you tired of the scheming and manipulating? It's time to stop. You have to stop and let what's going to be, be. You can't keep pulling the puppet strings.”

  “So I'm just supposed to sit by while my life falls apart?”

  “It already has. What I mean is, you've done all you can. It's out of your hands now.”

  “I can't do that. I just can't. Maybe I can convince Dylan to take the money—”

  “Blair! Stop.” Elle stands before me, gripping both of my wrists. “You have to let it go. Either he'll stay or he won't. Either he’ll get over it or he won't. But that's on him. You have to let him decide that on his own.”

  “But you don’t understand…”

  “I don’t understand? Blair, I’ve been here since day one. You’ve spent nearly half of your life with this man and half of that time you were miserable. As much as I hate to say it … I think maybe this is all happening for a reason. God's way of sorting it all out. And you know I'm not one to put God's name into anything, but I see his hand in this. Blair seriously, isn't there a tiny part of you that's relieved it's all out in the open now? You have to be relieved that the lying and sneaking is finally over. I know I am. Look at the toll it’s taken on you. Look at yourself.” She leads me to the mirror. “Look.”

  I don’t like the reflection. My complexion is sallow, and there are bags beneath my eyes. My hair, once long, thick and a natural shade of sable is now thin. Strands of gray creep out from my temples. I even notice faint, parenthesis-shaped lines around my mouth. Evidence of lips which no longer smile. I'm not the Blair I once knew, the one I used to be proud to look at in the mirror. I used to be pretty, beautiful even, but I've aged from the inside out. My eyes seem darker, much older than my thirty-four years.

  “No,” Elle says, “don’t cry. I didn't do this to make you feel bad, I just need you to see what I see. What I've seen you become over these past few months. I love you and can't see you do this to yourself anymore. You’ve lost at least ten pounds since I last saw you.”

  Ten? That's all? Most of my clothes don't fit anymore, which to the old me would have been the perfect excuse to go shopping, but not now. The things that used to bring me pleasure, no longer do.

  “I don't know what to do,” I say. “I'm sitting here waiting for the anvil to drop, waiting to see what's going to become of me.”

  “You don’t have to wait for anything. If Vaughn leaves, he leaves. You still have yourself. None of this other shit even matters. You take Morgan and the money in your savings and you start over. You can come to Atlanta and stay with Luke and me until you get on your feet.”

  “Atlanta?”

  “Yeah, or wherever. You have means Blair, stop acting as if all you have are the clothes on your back. And Dylan will owe you child support. You’ll be okay.”

  “But, Dylan only earns—”

  “That's beside the point! You’re not listening. No, Dylan is no multi-millionaire, but how many of us are, and we all manage to live comfortably. It's not all or nothing. You’ve got to stop seeing everything as black and white.” She softens her tone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice, I just need you to see that you aren't alone and that it's going to be okay. You hear me?”

  “Yeah, I know. I know everything you’re saying is true, but I just can’t see it. I feel so weak, Elle. I'm scared to go it alone, especially now that I've got Morgan. I don't want her to ever see what a loser her mother is.”

  “You're not a loser.”

  “Yeah, I am. You love me and want me to feel better, but I know … I know deep down just what I am and I hate it.”

  “Blair, don't. You’ve made some mistakes. Yes. We all have, but they don't define us. We pick up the pieces, learn the lesson and keep it moving. That's what I did after Marcus. Had I sat and dwelled on all of the poor decisions I made, I'd never be with Luke right now. I had to accept it first, so that I could move on.”

  “Accept that I'm a cheater who’s been lying to everyone for years? How do I accept that? How?”

  “You just do. Listen, Vaughn was no angel, only difference is that it never caught up to him. Not that we know of anyhow. Not justifying what you did, but it's not
like you had a committed, faithful husband at home. The whole situation was fucked up to start with. And he knows that, which is why he’s still here.”

  “He’s still here because of Morgan.”

  “That’s part of it, but also because he still loves you. No one can turn their feelings off and on in an instant. Not even Vaughn. He’s only human. All I'm saying is, you have to forgive yourself. At some point you have to.”

  Elle’s pick-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps pep talk holds weight, but I don’t want to move to Atlanta or leave my husband. I want my old life back. Does she have a how-to guide for that?

  TWENTY

  I’m afraid to ask Vaughn if there’s been any word from Dylan. I imagine he would have told me if there was, but our communication is strained to say the least.

  I get my answer the next day when Rosa calls me to the front door. A tall, lanky man greets me, asks me to confirm my identity then hands me a white envelope and advises me that ‘I’ve been served.’ I tear it open.

  Dylan is suing me for custody!

  I rush to the media room and pound on the door.

  Vaughn cracks it open and shoots me what’s become his standard-issue look of annoyance. “What?”

  “Look!” I shove the paper in his face.

  He skims it. “What the fuck?”

  “What are we going to do? We should call Frank.”

  “No, no, I’ll handle it.” He jams his feet into a pair of sneakers.

  “What are you going to do?”

  He zips up his sweatshirt. “I said, I’ll take care of it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He ignores me and heads out of the room.

  I try to keep up with his long strides. “Vaughn! I’m talking to you.”

  He stops and turns abruptly, forcing me to crash into him. “I said, I’ll handle it, okay?”

  “But—”

  Before I can finish my sentence, he’s gone, headed off to the garage.

  Five long, insufferable hours pass before I see his headlights approach in our driveway. I leap up from my seat in the front parlor and rush to the door.

  He enters and brushes past me. “Why are you still up?”

  “Waiting for you. Where were you?”

  “Nowhere.”

  I follow him into the kitchen. “What do you mean nowhere? You’ve been gone for hours. It’s almost one in the morning. Talk to me!”

  He opens the refrigerator.

  “Oh, so you’re just going to get a drink and ignore me? Vaughn, where were you?”

  But he doesn’t get a beverage, instead he grabs an icepack from the freezer.

  “Vaughn.” I flick on the lights. There’s a huge welt beneath his left eye and a two inch gash on his cheek. “What happened to you?” I reach out to touch his face.

  He pulls away. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “What happened?”

  He leans against the counter, his face screwed up into an angry scowl. “I went to talk to your boy.”

  Oh God.

  Exactly where I’d prayed he hadn’t gone. I’d convinced myself that he hadn’t. Reassured myself that Vaughn had much more sense than to get involved in a schoolyard brawl. He’s way too smart for that. Or so I thought.

  “And what happened?”

  “Things got a little out of hand.”

  “He did this to you?” I have to say I’m floored, not only because things got physical, but because Dylan was able to inflict this much damage. I assumed if they ever came to blows Vaughn would kill him. But I also have no idea what Dylan’s face looks like.

  “Baby, are you okay? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

  “Relax, it’s just a little cut. I’m fine.”

  “What did you do to him?”

  “We had some words and things got out of hand. He’ll be alright.”

  “Did you hurt him?” I ask, afraid of the answer.

  “Do you really care?”

  “I’m just worried,” I say, trying to remove any hint of sympathy for Dylan from my voice. “If you hurt him, he may call the police or something. What if he presses charges?”

  He holds the icepack against his cheek. “He won’t.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Trust me.”

  “Like I did when you said he would take the money?”

  Vaughn grips both my forearms and shoves me up against the island. “What did you say?”

  “Ow! Nothing! Nothing, I just thought—”

  “Fuck what you thought! This is all your doing, Blair. Don’t you forget that. All of this is because of you and your shit! The lawsuit. My face. All of it. So you watch what you say to me, you hear?”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  He unleashes me and storms out of the kitchen.

  My legs grow weak beneath me and I crumble to the floor. A second later, I hear the door to the media room slam shut.

  Whatever happened last night could only have made matters worse. Dylan obviously refused the money, and from what I know of him, physical threats will only incense him. I can’t see how we’re going to avoid the courtroom.

  I’d only taken a quick glance at those legal papers before Vaughn left with them. So, after he’s gone for the day—to go God knows where, I didn’t dare ask—I go to his office to find it. I sink into his over-sized chair and rustle through his drawers. Here it is, in his top drawer, neatly re-folded and returned to its envelope, but still wrinkled from his clutch.

  Dylan Stewart, Plaintiff

  vs.

  Blair Hill, Defendant

  I study the words. Plaintiff vs. Defendant. Dylan vs. Blair. I never thought I’d see the day. At one point in time I was in love with that man and he was in love with me. He meant everything to me, even if just for a short time. Now he’s the enemy, the man standing in between me and my husband. I read on.

  Plaintiff is a fit and proper person to have the exclusive care, custody and control of the said minor child, and it is in the best interest of the said minor child that her exclusive care, custody and control be placed with Plaintiff.

  Immediately all sentimentality vanishes. Exclusive care? Who the hell does he think he is? He’s seen Morgan a handful of times. She barely knows him, and he has the balls to believe he’s entitled to exclusive care? I’m glad Vaughn kicked his ass. He deserved it and then some. Who would ever award him full custody? No court would take a child from their mother.

  Or would they?

  I commence a frantic Internet search on Vaughn’s computer, looking for what, I’m not sure, just something to prove what I think I know—that Dylan has no chance in hell. I come across dozens of custody cases, and pretty much all conclude with custody granted to the mother, unless she’s a drug addict or abusive. However, I do stumble across one case which gives me pause. A woman in Virginia who lost custody of her son to his father. It was found that her withholding of the truth, that she knew he was the father, was evidence of her intent to deceive and not act in the best interests of the child.

  I feel the walls close in on me and have an urgent need for fresh air. I print out the story, fold it and stuff it into my back pocket. Then I ask Rosa to watch Morgan and head to the garage.

  I drive around aimlessly with all four windows rolled down. Blasts of crisp Autumn air beat against my cheeks. With each passing mile, I grow angrier and soon find myself just down the block from the woman who did this to me.

  Who else could it have been, but her? She’s been probing since last year and she could have easily found our medical records. Yeah, I accidentally aired her dirty laundry, but what she’s done is reprehensible. Because of her, I can lose everything.

  I careen down the road until I reach the cul-de-sac. Celine’s house sits in the center. I park out front and storm up the pathway, still unsure of what I’ll say. Before I can even press the bell, the door swings open.

  Celine’s face is tear-stricken, her pale skin even paler.

  “What ar
e you doing here?” She glares at me as she thrusts her arms into the sleeves of a gray wool coat.

  “We have to talk.”

  “I don’t have anything to say to you.” She rummages through her purse. Her keys slip from her hand. When she bends to pick them up, her bag falls and everything spills out onto the floor. She drops to her knees, frantically scooping it all up. An inhaler tumbles towards me, landing by my feet. I never knew she had asthma. I bend to pick it up and she starts bawling.

  “Celine, what’s wrong?”

  She sobs heavier and reaches out her hand, pointing to the inhaler. I give it to her. She shakes it then takes three swift pumps in between her wheezes.

  “Celine? Are you okay?” I kneel and touch her shoulder. “You need me to call somebody?”

  She closes her eyes and steadies her breathing. “No. No, I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?” I look past her. “Is Ed here? I’ll go get him.”

  “No, he’s at the hospital. I was just on my way out. They just called me...”

  She takes more slow, deliberate breaths.

  “Who called you? What’s wrong?”

  “Ed had a stroke. In his office. I have to get down there now.”

  “Oh my God! A stroke?” I help her to her feet. “Do you need me to drive you?”

  “No. I’m fine. Look, Blair, I don’t know why you’re here, but I can’t deal with you right now. Whatever happened between us, it’s … it’s whatever. My husband could be dying. I have to go.”

  She slams the door behind her and dashes to her Volvo.

  I feel cheated. And guilty because my first thought is that I’ve been cheated. I was ready for her. But now my anger is melting into a pool of sympathy. Although I was never a fan of Ed, I can’t help but worry about him. Who has a stroke at thirty-nine years old?

  *****

  Norah’s offer to take me to lunch is just the distraction I need. She shows up at my door with a bouquet of lilies. She’s never been good at apologizing; these flowers are her peace offering, follow-up to the letter she wrote me from rehab. This is the first time I’m seeing her since she’s been out. Ashley wanted to pick her up alone, so they could spend some private mother-daughter time on the drive back downstate.