The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1

by Douglas Kennedy

  “Because I didn’t want to talk to you.”

  There was a pause. I could sense that she was a little stunned by that statement. Finally she said, “That is not acceptable.”

  “I don’t care if it is acceptable or not. I will simply not deal with your appalling behavior toward me anymore.”

  She let out a small, low laugh.

  “My, my, we are feeling emboldened tonight, aren’t we?”

  “Not emboldened. Just fed up.”

  “Well, alas, I am afraid you will simply have to put up with my alleged meddlesome nature. Because you have married my son and . . .”

  “Marrying your son doesn’t give you the right to tell me what to do.”

  “On the contrary, I have every right. You are carrying our grandchild . . .”

  “He or she is my child.”

  “Try fleeing this marriage and you will discover quick enough whose child he is.”

  “I am not planning to flee this marriage.”

  “Yes, you are. Why else is your brother visiting you at least once a week?”

  “Because he’s my brother, that’s why. Because I’m lonely here.”

  “That’s because nobody likes you, dear. You don’t fit in . . . something I’m certain you’ve complained about to your very dear brother during those long afternoons you spend together at Todd’s Point . . .”

  “How the hell do you know about my brother’s visit . . .”

  “It’s a small town. People talk. Most especially, they talk to me. And dear, never use profanity with me again. I won’t stand for it.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you will or will not stand for . . .”

  “Oh yes, you do,” she said mildly. “Because know this: if you want to leave this marriage, that is fine by me, and it’s also fine by Mr. Grey. Just leave us the child . . .”

  It took a moment for this to register.

  “What did you just say?” I said, hushed.

  Her tone remained cordial, mild. “I said, I am very happy for you to leave this marriage after the birth of your child . . . on the condition, of course, that we retain custody of the child.”

  “We?”

  “George, of course . . . legally speaking.”

  The phone trembled in my hand. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

  “Do you hear what you’re saying?” I asked.

  “What an extraordinary question,” she said with a mock laugh. “Of course I hear what I’m saying. The real question is: do you, dear?”

  “Say I simply vanished . . .”

  “To where? A cabin in the woods? Some one-room apartment in a big city? You know we’d spare no expense finding you. And we would most certainly find you. When we did, the very fact of your disappearance would strengthen our legal case against you. Of course, you might consider waiting until the child is born, and then suing George for divorce. But before you choose that route, do remember this: Mr. Grey is a partner in one of Wall Street’s most venerable law firms. If necessary, the full legal artillery of that firm can be turned against you. Believe me, a divorce court would have you declared an unfit mother before you had a chance to exhale.”

  The phone began to tremble again. I suddenly felt ill.

  “Still there, dear?” she asked.

  I couldn’t speak.

  “Have I upset you, dear?”

  Silence.

  “Oh my, I sense that I have. Whereas my purpose was simply to point out the stark alternatives should you attempt to do anything silly. But you’re not planning to do anything silly, are you, dear?”

  Silence.

  “I want an answer.”

  Silence. I couldn’t open my mouth.

  “An answer. Now.”

  “No,” I whispered, “I won’t do anything silly.” Then I put down the phone.

  When George came home that night, he found me curled up in bed, a blanket pulled tight around me. He looked alarmed.

  “Darling? Darling?”

  He shook me by the shoulder. I looked at him blankly.

  “Darling, what’s happened?”

  I didn’t answer him. Because I didn’t feel able to answer him. The ability to speak had left me. I was here, but I was not here.

  “Darling, please, tell me what’s wrong.”

  I keep staring at him. My mind felt curiously empty. A void.

  “Oh God . . . ,” George said and ran out of the room. I nodded off. When I came to, help had arrived—in the form of my mother-in-law. She was standing at the edge of my bed, George at her side. As I came to, George was kneeling by my side, stroking my head.

  “Are you better, darling?” he asked.

  I still felt unable to respond. He turned back to his mother, looking deeply worried. She nodded her head toward the door, motioning for him to leave. As soon as he was gone, she walked over and sat down on George’s bed. She looked at me for a very long time. Her gaze was dispassionate.

  “I suppose I am to blame for all this,” she said, her voice as temperate as ever.

  I turned my eyes downward. I couldn’t bear looking at her.

  “I do know you are there, dear,” she said. “Just as I also know that these sorts of little afflictions are usually a sign of deep personal weakness, and are often self-inflicted. So please understand: you are not fooling me. Not at all.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “Go on, feign sleep,” she said. “Just as you’re feigning this breakdown. Of course, if it was something to do with your pregnancy, I might have a certain sympathy. Mind you, I loathed being pregnant. Loathed every minute of it. I suppose you must hate it too. Especially given how much you hate the family into which you’ve married.”

  She was right about my contempt for her family. However, she was so wrong about my feelings toward my pregnancy. I despised the circumstances in which I had landed myself. The absurdity of my marriage, the abhorrent nature of Mrs. Grey . . . The one thing—the only thing—that was maintaining my sanity was the child I was carrying. I didn’t know who or what this child would be. All I knew was that I felt a deep, absolute, unconditional love for him or her. I didn’t totally understand this love. If asked, I probably wouldn’t have been able to explain it in a rational, straightforward way. Because it wasn’t rational or straightforward. It was just all-encompassing. The child was my future, my raison d’être.

  But now, Mrs. Grey had blanketed that future with a dark specter.

  If you want to leave this marriage, that is fine by me, and it’s also fine by Mr. Grey. Just leave us the child . . .

  A scenario began to unspool inside my head. The baby is born. I am allowed to hold him for a few minutes. A nurse comes and says that she’s bringing him back to the nursery. As soon as he is out of my hands, a bailiff arrives bearing a writ. Mrs. Grey has made good on her threat.

  Believe me, a divorce court would have you declared an unfit mother before you had a chance to exhale.

  A shudder ran through me. I felt as if I had touched a live wire. I clutched myself.

  “Feeling cold, dear?” Mrs. Grey said. “Or are you just playacting for my benefit?”

  I shut my eyes again.

  “All right—be that way. A doctor should be here shortly. But I’m certain he should confirm what I already know: there is nothing physically wrong with you. Still, if you persist in continuing in this absent state, I’m certain there are several good sanitoriums in Fairfield County, where you’d be looked after until the baby arrives . . . and maybe even afterward, if your mental state remained unchanged. I’m told that getting someone committed isn’t that difficult. Especially if, like you, they are showing all the usual signs of mental distress . . .”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Ah, that must be the doctor.”

  The doctor was a solemn, taciturn man in his fifties. He introduced himself to me as Dr. Rutan and explained that he was dealing with Dr. Eisenberg’s house calls this evening. He had all of Eisenberg’s warmth and
charm. When I didn’t answer his first few questions—because I still felt incapable of speech—he didn’t express concern or worry. He simply got down to business. He took my pulse, my blood pressure. He listened to my heart. He placed the stethoscope on my expanded abdomen, and listened there too. He did some prodding and poking with his hands. He opened my mouth and—using a tongue depressor and a penlight—he gazed inside. Then he pulled out a small penlight, and shined it in my eyes. Turning toward my husband and mother-in-law, he said, “Everything is working fine. So either she is having a minor breakdown, or what could best be described as a very big sulk. It’s not uncommon during pregnancy. If the woman is of the delicate sort, the whole experience can overwhelm them, throwing everything out of proportion. And so, like little children, they retreat into themselves. And sulk.”

  “How long might this go on?” George asked.

  “I don’t know. Try to keep her fed and quiet. She should pull out of it in a day or two.”

  “And if she doesn’t?” Mrs. Grey asked.

  “Then,” the doctor said, “we will consider other medical options.”

  I shut my eyes again. Only this time the desired effect happened. I fell into nothingness.

  When I opened my eyes again, I knew immediately that something was very wrong. It was the middle of the night. I could hear George snoring softly in the adjoining bed. The room was black. And hot. So hot that I felt sodden. Sodden to the skin. I also felt in urgent need of a toilet. But when I tried to sit up, I felt lightheaded, vertiginous, woozy. Eventually I managed to put my feet on the floor. Standing up took some effort. I tried to take a step and had to steady myself. My little episode earlier in the evening—my absent state, as Mrs. Grey called it—must have been more serious than I realized. Because I felt truly weak.

  I staggered across the darkened room, feeling my way to the bathroom door with outstretched hands. Reaching it, I stepped inside and flipped the switch. The room convulsed into light.

  And I screamed.

  Because there—in the bathroom mirror—was a reflection of myself. My face was the color of chalk. My eyes were yellow. And the bottom half of my white nightgown was red. Crimson red. Drenched in blood.

  Then I felt as if I was falling into nothingness again. Only this time the plunge was accompanied by a nasty thud. Then the world went dark.

  When I snapped back to consciousness, I was in a white room. With harsh white light. And an elderly man in a stiff white jacket beaming a penlight into my eyes. My left arm was strapped to the bed. I noticed a tube protruding from the arm, then a bottle of plasma hanging beside the bed.

  “Welcome back,” he said.

  “Oh . . . right,” I said, utterly incoherent.

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “Uh . . . what?”

  He spoke loudly, as if I was deaf. “Do you know where you are?”

  “Uh . . . well . . . no.”

  “You are at Greenwich Hospital.”

  This took a moment to sink in.

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know who I am?” the man asked.

  “Should I?”

  “We have met before. I am Dr. Eisenberg—your obstetrician. Do you know why you’re here, Sara?”

  “Where am I?”

  “As I said before: you are at Greenwich Hospital. Your husband found you on the floor of your bathroom, covered in blood.”

  “I remember . . .”

  “You’re a very lucky young woman. You went into a dead faint. Had you fallen the wrong way, you could have broken your neck. As it turned out, you just have some minor bruising.”

  Clarity was beginning to return. I suddenly felt scared.

  “Am I all right?” I asked quietly.

  He looked at me carefully.

  “As I said, you only suffered some superficial bruising. And you lost quite a bit of blood . . .”

  Now I was scared. And very conscious. “Doctor, am I all right?”

  Eisenberg met my stare. “You lost the baby.”

  I closed my eyes. I felt as if I was falling again.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I had my right hand to my mouth. I bit hard on a knuckle. I didn’t want to cry in front of this man.

  “I’ll come back later,” he said and headed toward the door.

  Suddenly I asked, “Was it a boy or a girl?”

  He turned around. “The fetus was only partially formed.”

  “Answer me: was it a boy or a girl?”

  “A boy.”

  I blinked. I bit down on my knuckle again.

  “I have some other difficult news,” he said. “Because the fetus was only partially formed, we had to operate to remove it from your womb. During surgery, we discovered that part of the wall of your womb had been badly damaged by the abnormal pregnancy. So damaged, in fact, that it is highly unlikely you’ll ever be able to conceive, let alone carry another pregnancy to full term. Understand: this is not a finite diagnosis. But from my clinical experience, the chances of you now being able to have a baby are, I’m afraid, improbable.”

  There was a very long silence. He stared down at his shoes. “Do you have any questions?” he finally asked.

  I put the palms of my hands against my eyes, and pressed hard, wanting to black out the world. After a moment, Eisenberg said, “I’m sure you’d like to be on your own for a while.”

  I heard the door shut. I kept my palms pressed against my eyes. Because I couldn’t face opening them. I couldn’t face anything right now. I was in a nose dive.

  The door opened again. I heard George softly say my name. I removed my hands. He came into focus. He was very pale, and looked like he hadn’t slept for days. Standing next to him was his mother. I suddenly heard myself say: “I don’t want her here.”

  Mrs. Grey blanched. “What was that you said?” she asked.

  “Mother . . . ,” George said, putting a hand on her arm—a hand which she immediately brushed away.

  “Get her the hell out of here now,” I shouted.

  She calmly approached the bed. “I will forgive that comment on the grounds that you have been through a traumatic experience.”

  “I don’t want your forgiveness. Just go.”

  Her face flexed into one of her tight little smiles. She bent down close to me. “Let me ask you something, Sara. Having self-induced this tragedy, are you now using disrespect as a way of dodging the fact that you’ve become damaged goods?”

  That’s when I hit her. Using my free hand, I slapped her hard across the face. It caught her off-balance, sending her to the floor. She let out a scream. George came rushing forward, yelling something incoherent. He helped his mother back to her feet, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . . ,” in her ear. She turned and faced me, looking disoriented, dumbfounded, robbed of her triumphant malice. George put an arm around her and helped her out the door. A few minutes later, he came back in as rattled as someone who had just walked away from a car wreck.

  “One of the nurses is looking after her,” he said. “I said that she took a turn and fell.”

  I turned away from him.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, approaching me. “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry . . .”

  I cut him off. “We have nothing more to say to each other.”

  He tried to reach for me. I put my arm up to fend him off.

  “Darling . . . ,” he said.

  “Please leave, George.”

  “You were right to hit her. She deserved . . .”

  “George, I don’t want to talk right now.”

  “Fine, fine. I’ll come back later. But, darling, know this: we’re going to be fine. I don’t care what Dr. Eisenberg says. It’s just an opinion. Worst comes to worst, we can always adopt. But, really . . .”

  “George—there’s the door. Please use it.”

  He heaved a deep sigh. He looked rattled. And scared.

  “All right, I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.”

/>   “No, George. I don’t want to see you tomorrow.”

  “Well, I can come back the day after . . .”

  “I don’t want to see you again.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I’m saying it.”

  “I’ll do anything . . .”

  “Anything?”

  “Yes, darling. Anything.”

  “Then I want you to do two things. The first is, call my brother. Tell him what’s happened. Tell him everything.”

  “Of course, of course. I’ll call him as soon as I get home. And the second request?”

  “Stay away from me.”

  This took a moment to sink in. “You don’t really mean that,” he said.

  “Yes—I really mean that.”

  Silence. I finally looked at him. He was crying.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He rubbed his eyes with his hands. “I’ll do as you ask,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  He was frozen to the spot, unable to move.

  “Goodbye, George,” I whispered, then turned away.

  After he left, a nurse came in, carrying a small ceramic bowl, containing a syringe and a vial. She placed the bowl on the bedside table, inserted the needle into the rubber top of the vial, inverted it, and filled part of the syringe with a viscous fluid.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Something to help you sleep.”

  “I don’t want to sleep.”

  “Doctor’s orders.”

  Before I could object further, I felt a quick jab in the arm. I was under within seconds. When I came to again, it was morning. Eric was sitting on the edge of my bed. He gave me a sad smile.

  “Hi there,” he said.

  I reached for his hand. He moved closer down the bed, and threaded his fingers through mine. “Did George call you?” I asked.

  “Yes. He did.”

  “And did he tell you . . . ?”

  “Yes. He told me.”

  Suddenly I was sobbing. Immediately Eric put his arms around me. I buried my head in his shoulder. My sobs quickly escalated. He held me tighter as I cried. I was inconsolable. I had never known such wild, unbridled grief. And I couldn’t stop.

  I don’t know how long I carried on crying. Eric said nothing. No words of consolation or condolence. Because words were meaningless at this moment. I would never have children. That was the terrible fact of the matter. Nothing anyone said could change that. Tragedy renders language impotent.