Holy shit.” He stumbles.
Stares at his feet for a moment, wipes a palm across his face. And then he’s in motion. Wrapping his arms around me. Pulling me around to sit on the couch. On his lap on the couch. My cheek to his chest. Hand on my back, rubbing in soothing circles as I sob.
“You’re pregnant. How long have you known?”
“I just took the test.”
“But if you took the test at a clinic, you’ve been worried about it for a while, then. Right?”
I shrug. “I suppose. I was worried. I missed my period three weeks ago. The doctor at the hospital thought I might be pregnant, actually. So it’s been in my mind all this while. And I’ve been getting sick in the mornings lately.”
A silence.
“Holy shit. You’re pregnant.” A silence. “We’re having a baby.”
“Logan.” I realize something, a factor I’m not sure he’s thought of. “I—The time frame. I don’t know—”
He takes my face in his hands, lifts my face up so I’m looking at him. There’s nothing but love in his eyes. “I’m not an idiot, Isabel. I know.” He kisses me, quickly, softly.
“Logan, it may not be—”
“You were with both him and me in the same span of time. So it could be either Caleb’s or mine. That’s what you’re saying. And I’m saying I know.”
“And you’re not—you don’t—?”
“What did you think I’d do? Kick you out? Tell you to take it to him? Say, ‘Not my problem’? I love you, Isabel. I’m here. We’re together. No matter what happens.” He pauses. “Is it easy for me to accept? No. I’m not sitting here saying, ‘Hey, cool, the woman I love is having a baby and we don’t know if it’s mine or the man who’s cost me five years in prison and my eye.’ It’s not cool. It’s not fine. Thinking about it in those terms makes me a little crazy.”
“That’s what I’m—”
He doesn’t let me finish. “But what I’m not going to do is condemn you or hold anything against you or push you away. It’ll take time to come to terms with, but I’ll do that in my own way, on my own terms and in my own time. And I’m not going to get all nasty with you over it in the meantime.”
This just makes me weep all the harder. “I don’t understand you, Logan, and I certainly don’t deserve you.”
He touches my chin, and I meet his gaze. He speaks softly. “Doing the right thing isn’t always easy, Isabel. You know that. But it’s always an option. It’s a choice. To be a good person is a choice, day by day. I had to choose—still have to choose each and every day—to not hate Caleb for everything he’s done to me, to not seek revenge. I have to choose, in this case, to continue loving you, no matter what. That means accepting the reality of difficult circumstances. I’m not going to abandon you or push you away. It’s hard, yes, but my love for you is stronger.”
I cling to him. “I love you, Logan. I was so scared. So worried about what you’d say, what you’d do.”
“His, mine, I don’t care. It’s ours. We’ll handle this together.” He goes silent. “Have you decided if you’re . . . keeping it?” This sounds like an afterthought. Something he realized I may have considered.
“I haven’t gotten that far, Logan. I don’t even know . . . what to do. What to think. What I want. I want to not be pregnant. I want to not . . . I want to not be such a horrible person that I don’t even know which of you is the father. How awful is that? What kind of horrible woman am I, that I’m pregnant and don’t even know who—who . . . who the—the father is?”
I break down, then. Truly break down.
Sobbing. Mucus dripping. Chest heaving. Hyperventilating. Unable to function, to see, to move, to do anything other than just . . . break.
Shatter: to break suddenly and violently into pieces.
Logan just holds me. Lets me break, and clings to me through it.
I don’t know how long I break, there against the wall of Logan’s chest. How long he holds me. How long it takes me to shatter completely, until there’s nothing left of me.
* * *
I have no recollection of being picked up, carried, and set down in our bed. But I come to awareness, eventually, and I’m there, in our bed. Logan is spooned behind me. I can tell by his breathing that he’s awake.
I lie silent a long, long time, letting my mind work. Letting my thoughts and emotions just flow, flicker, flit-stream.
How is it even possible? I am on birth control, and I have been for a very long time. You brought me to the same clinic in your office building, where I lived, where you live, where I had the chip removed. There was an examination, you watching like a hawk all the while. And then the doctor inserted something into me. Birth control, the doctor explained. An IUD. The process was a little uncomfortable. There was some pain, some dizziness, nausea. Normal, I was told, considering my young age and that I had never given birth before; it will pass. And it did. I had regular checkups by your private doctor thereafter. Once a year, that same doctor would perform an overall examination. You even had the doctor replace the IUD a year ago, as it had reached the end of its efficacy term.
Perhaps it came out? I don’t know. I never thought to check. I should have, I was told to, but I never did.
Or, perhaps, it just didn’t work. Nothing is ever 100 percent effective, I remember the doctor saying as much.
I slip out of bed and go into the bathroom, check for the IUD; it’s still in place, which I assume means it failed.
In the end, though, it doesn’t matter how it happened. It did. It’s real. I’m pregnant. A human being is growing within me.
What do I do? The counselor at the clinic outlined three basic choices: abortion, adoption, or raising it myself. Which do I choose?
Abortion? Terminating the pregnancy?
I consider it. But something within me rebels against that idea. No. Not that.
So, adoption, or delivering the baby and raising it.
Adoption, delivering the baby to term, and giving it away for someone else to raise. Could I do that?
No. My heart rebels against that just as strongly. If I am going to carry the child for nine months, I could not then give it away. Give her or him away. Say, as Logan put it, Not my problem? I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
I’m scared. I’m terrified. I don’t know how to be a mother. I don’t know how to raise a child. I don’t even really know who I am, yet. Maybe I never will. How could I then raise a person, teach that child to be the best he or she could be? What could I teach them? What do I know? How to be addicted to a man who doesn’t love me. Doesn’t care for me. Just wants to possess me.
Is that true, though? A sinister little voice whispers, deep inside me. What about the last time you were with him? He kissed you. He made LOVE to you. As Jakob. What if . . . ?
No.
No.
No.
Even if you COULD love me, if you did, it wouldn’t be enough to overcome all that I have endured at your hands. Even though you have given me a life, given me somewhere to live, even though you were there for me, caring for me when I was helpless and had no one. It isn’t enough. It can never be enough.
And nothing you could ever feel for me, nothing you could ever do or say could ever match what Logan feels for me. The way he makes me feel. The way I feel about him.
I am complete, with him.
I have an identity, a future, potential, with him. I am someone, with him.
With you . . . I will always only be Madame X.
A possession.
I have to tell you.
The life growing inside me could be yours. I don’t think there’s any way to know until I give birth. Will the baby have blue eyes and blond hair, like Logan? Dark eyes, dark hair, like you? Like me? What if the baby’s features aren’t distinctive enough to tell me who the father is? What then?
Doe
s it matter?
If I told you—when I tell you—what will you say? Will you want it? Want me? Would you insist I get an abortion? Try to force that on me? Manipulate me and twist me into it? If I had still been Madame X and this happened, I came up unexpectedly pregnant, what would you have done? Let me have the baby? Let me raise the baby on my own, alone, perhaps stopping by once in a while? I don’t know. I don’t know what you would have done. What you will say. What you will do.
I just don’t know.
So I can’t abort the baby—God, my heart twists in painful knots just thinking that. I can’t. I can’t.
And I can’t give the baby away. That too hurts to even think.
So I am keeping the baby.
As if a human being is a stray dog to just . . . keep. It is a life growing within me. A soul. A mind. Talents. A smile. Hugs, kisses.
* * *
Mama is a warm weight on top of the blankets, on the edge of my bed. Her arm is over me, her fingers toying with my hair. She’s singing a lullaby to me, the same lullaby she’s sung to me every night for my whole life. I am too old for lullabies, probably. But I don’t care. I love these moments, when I am clean and my hair is damp on the pillow, blankets pulled up to my chin, Mama’s breath on my ear, her voice singing sweetly, softly, a song her mother sang to her, and so on down the generations. So Mama tells me, some nights. An age-old song. I feel myself start to fade, to fall into sleep. I welcome it. My window is open, and the sound of the ocean crashing against the shore is another lullaby.
I hear her humming now. The tune only. Stroking my hair. “Duerme, mi amor.”
Fading in and out, listening to the waves. Later, I hear my door creak. Heavy footsteps. Papa’s cologne. His hand, warm and heavy on my shoulder. Whiskers on my cheek, breath smelling faintly of the red wine he and Mama drink when they think I’m asleep.
Kiss to my cheek. “Te amo, mija.”
I am too nearly asleep to even murmur.
Now that Papa has kissed me good night, I can sleep.
* * *
I smile to myself. They loved me, my mama and my papa.
I will love this one—my hand goes to my belly. I will love this one.
“I’m keeping the baby.” I whisper it.
Logan’s hand slides over my hip, his fingers tangle with mine, over my stomach. “Good.”
“I’m so scared, Logan.” My voice quavers. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“You’re not doing it alone, Isabel.”
“But I don’t . . . I don’t know how to be a mother. I barely even remember my own. A few snatches of memory. Her cooking for me when I was a little girl. Her singing an old lullaby to me in Spanish. But . . . how do I mother a child? I’m not—I don’t—”
“Love, Isabel. That’s how. Hugs, kisses, lullabies. Be there. Just . . . love. The rest we’ll figure out together, as we go. That’s all anyone has ever done, I think. I don’t think anyone is ever ready for a baby, sweetheart. No one really knows what they’re doing. You just . . . do the best you can. Love them, be there for them, take care of them to the best of your ability. That’s all you can do.”
“But what if . . . what if it’s his?”
“Will he want it? Will he want, like, joint custody or something, if it is?”
“I have no idea, Logan. I don’t even know how to tell him. I don’t know if I ever want to see him again.” I shake my head against the pillow. “He has answers. He knows things about me. There’s a history, there, somewhere. He knew me. I know he did. But . . . if I see him again, I’m afraid of what will happen. Me changing has changed him. I don’t want to . . . to see him anymore. Even if I never find out the answers, I don’t want to see him. I am Isabel now, yes. But I am also the woman who was Madame X. I am both. Madame X is still a part of who I am. So is he. But now . . . so are you.”
“We’re a part of each other.”
“It’s all so . . . messy.”
“Life is messy, Is. We’re all just . . . fumbling around out here. Living, doing the best with what we’ve got. It’s never easy, and it’s never simple.”
“I wish it were.”
“So does everyone else.”
“Not everyone has been through what I have.”
“True. And I’m not trying to make light of that. Just saying, you’re not alone in this mess called life.”
“I have you.”
“Exactly.” He pulls at me, so I’m on my back. I turn my head to look at him. He’s removed the patch, and the space where his eye used to be is a wrinkled, scarred hole. It’s strange, but it’s part of him. “Listen, Isabel. I promised you I’d love you, no matter what. I do. I will. I’m making that promise again. I love you. No matter what. Okay? You want to tell him, I’ll go with you. You want to stay clear of him, we’ll make sure you never see him again. We’ll move to freakin’ Thailand if we have to. Okay? I’ll take care of you.”
“And the baby?”
“And the baby.”
I can’t help crying again at that.
And again, he kisses me. Kisses the tears away. Wipes them with the broad pad of his thumb. Kisses my lips.
It’s going to be okay.
* * *
It is early in the morning, and we are having breakfast. He shoots me a glance, sets the newspaper down. “Babe?”
I lower my mug of tea. “Yes, Logan?”
He snorts. “You gotta loosen up, honey.” He straightens his spine, makes a tight, sour face, raises his voice to a falsetto, and captures my inflections precisely. “‘Yes, Logan?’ Like for real, if I say, ‘Hey, babe,’ you should say something simple and normal, like . . . ‘What’s up, buttercup?’”
I frown at him. “What does that mean, ‘What’s up, buttercup?’ It strikes me as trite and empty.”
Another laugh. “It is. Which is why it’s funny. Just . . . try it. So let’s start over.” A pause, and he clears his throat. “Hey, babe?”
I slouch in my chair, make a grumpy face, affect as deep a voice as I can. “Yo dude, what’s up?”
A big broad shout of genuine laughter. “Exactly! I love it!”
I straighten. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, what is it you wanted to ask me?”
“You ever see the touristy stuff around here? Like, the Statue of Liberty and all that?”
I shrug. “Probably before, but not recently that I am able to recall.”
He slaps the table with his palm. “It’s settled, then. Time for a field trip!”
“Really?”
“Really. I’ll take the day off and we’ll just hang out and do the tourist thing. I’ve never really done it myself, for as long as I’ve lived here. You just . . . take it all for granted, you know?”
I shake my head. “Not really.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t, huh? It’s like, you live here, you work here, and the tourist stuff will always be here so there’s no point in going to look at any of it, because you live here. So you never end up going to see it.” He pulls out his phone, glances at me. “I’m gonna get us an Uber so I don’t have to worry about driving. You’ll want a sweater or something for when we’re on the ferry.”
“Ferry?”
“Well yeah, how else are we gonna see the statue? It’s way out in the bay, right?” A shooing gesture. “So go get some sturdy walking shoes on and grab a sweatshirt. The Uber will be here any minute.”
I do as instructed, putting on a pair of running shoes and a zip-up hoodie, by which time Logan has locked up Cocoa and is waiting outside by the Uber car, a black Mercedes sedan. He locks the front door, and we’re off.
I’m excited, actually. A day off, out with Logan. Exactly what I need, really, especially since I’ve already dealt with the morning sickness today.
Our first stop is a pier on the Hudson River, where Logan bu
ys us a ticket for the full tour of the island. We find seats on the upper deck, in the open air, and wait for the boat to fill. Within fifteen minutes or so, the ropes are thrown off, a horn sounds, and we back out of the slip, pivot, and trundle out into the river. Another couple of minutes, and then a voice fills the air, coming from a PA system, narrating our journey, describing landmarks of the island on our left telling us which number avenue we’re passing and explaining how the number of the pier corresponds to the street number nearest it. I pay close attention, sitting on the inside of the row, closest to the water, feeling as giddy as a little girl.
Mile by mile, however, a strange sensation grows within me. Familiarity. As if I’ve been here, before. The sun is midway up toward the zenith, beating warm on my face, and the boat is rolling gently, an elderly, stentorian male voice guiding the tour. Behind us, a woman and her two young boys chatter to each other in Spanish:
“Mama, where is the Statue of Liberty? Are we going to see it soon, Mama? Can we go up in it?”
“No, ’Jandro, we are going to go past it, but not on it. I think the man will tell us when we will be able to see it.”
“Can we get some food, Mama? I’m hungry. It’s been hours since breakfast.”
“My God, Manuel, you only think of your stomach. We have to save our money, so we cannot get anything to eat just yet. We will have lunch after the tour.”
I hear their voices, feel the sun. I’m floating.
Dizzy.
Something sparks, tumbles in my mind.
Clicks.
* * *
Mama is on my right, Papa to my left. We are up on the very top of the boat, sitting as far forward as we can. I am excited, flush with exuberance, but I am trying to keep it in, to be more like Mama, who has her hands folded on her lap and her ankles crossed beneath her, under the bench. She is calm, quiet, watching the buildings of Manhattan float past us.
We are really in New York! I am as excited as I am frightened. I know no one. I have no friends. We have no family. Papa speaks the best English of any of us, and mine is a close second to his, but Mama speaks barely any at all. I think it is okay for her, though, since because she is so very beautiful most men will do whatever she asks, even if she is asking it in Spanish, and they speak not a word. They’ll trip over themselves just to get a smile from her. I’ve seen it happen. She wanted a bottle of water but couldn’t figure out the money. The paper bills were all too big and they all looked the same, but the coins were too small and all looked different, and she was worried about getting cheated. The man trying to sell us the water didn’t speak any more English than we did, but he was a man, and a man with eyes for a beautiful woman. So when Mama let out a frustrated sigh, smiled that smile of hers, and held out the money to the man, he made the correct change for her. I am good at math, so I counted it, because really it’s very simple, and tried to tell this to Mama, but she just shushed me. But she got the bottle of water, and the correct change, and all she had to do was smile.
Exiled (A Madame X Novel) Page 10
