by Violet Haze
But no, Oliver answers her with a light chuckle.
“She doesn’t drink while pregnant,” he says as the warm brush of his hand across my forehead brings me comfort, something I’m glad for in this confusing as hell situation. “Perhaps she was sleepwalking.”
“Let’s hope so,” my mother retorts in her all too familiar disapproving tone. “That sort of language in front of the children is unacceptable.”
Whether it’s because he’s touching me or because I know him so well, I feel Oliver’s sigh to my bones as he replies softly, “She’s been a little on edge lately…with the pregnancy and…well, you know.”
“Both of your faults.” My mother clucks her tongue, her displeasure with whatever she’s referring to crystal clear. “I’m afraid I will never understand my daughter. I gave up many years ago and simply put up with her irrational decisions for the sake of my grandchildren.”
Wow. As always, I can rely on my mother to point out how much of a disappointment her only child is to her.
“And you…I expected better from you,” she continues on, scolding him. “However, as long as my grandchildren are loved and taken care of, that’s matters more than anything else.”
“Of course.”
When Oliver doesn’t say anything else — such as something that might give me insight into whatever the hell they’re discussing — I decide now is the perfect time to “wake up” and determine what is going on. Turning my head toward the right — the side Oliver is on — I open my eyes and find him smiling down at me, eyes filled with worry.
His appearance is the same, yet there’s something about him that’s different from the man I’ve spent years with. Doesn’t take me long to pinpoint the difference; his touch is firm, and there’s a noticeable confidence in his gaze as well as his manner.
Squeezing my hand, he places the palm of his other one against my forehead as if to check my temperature. “You scared us. Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine.” Noticing the pain in my head from earlier is gone, I return his smile, although mine is more unsure, and move my gaze to the woman I haven’t seen in ten years standing not far from where I am. “Mother. You’re still here.”
“You must’ve hit your head harder than we thought,” she comments, her lips pinching as she studies me for a few torturous and silent seconds. “Either way, I am not amused. You know damn well I live here and have since your father died a year ago.”
No emotional reaction from me at her statement. No happiness or sadness that my father is no longer alive and now my mother lives with me because of it.
Bitterness rises in my throat and makes it way out as a scathing retort toward this woman who has never loved me like she should. “What? Is all your money gone? Because that’s the only reason I can think of that you would choose to live with your disappointing and irrational daughter.”
Her swift intake of breath and rounded green eyes so like my own means she understands I heard what she said about me while not knowing I could hear them.
Before she can respond, Oliver shocks me into silence by grabbing my chin and bringing my gaze back to his as he hisses, “Stop, now. This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not laughing.” Jerking my chin out of his grasp, I sit up and finally notice he must’ve carried me back to the bed before looking at my mother to say, “Get out.”
She glares at me before huffing, “Fine. I’ll go check on the children and make sure they aren’t traumatized from your bizarre behavior earlier.”
“Bitch,” I mutter as she leaves the room, shutting the door behind her with a decided snap.
“What is your problem today?” Oliver releases my hand and stands up, his whole expression one of disgust as he frowns at me. “Your cruelty toward your mother is inexcusable after everything she’s been through.”
“Excuse me?” Tossing aside the blankets, I get out of bed on the other side and mirror his stance, not sure who is the angrier one between us. “What exactly has she been through?”
Instantly, his face falls into concern, all traces of anger gone. “Are you ill? Did you hit your head harder than I thought and need to see a doctor?”
“No, my head is fine.” Even though I’m sure this has to be a dream even with the pinch test, the last thing I want to do is end up with him or anyone else thinking me crazy by acknowledging there are things I don’t remember that I obviously should. “Well, perhaps it’s a little fuzzy from the fall, so just tell me what you’re talking about.”
He frowns but indulges me anyway. “You know your mother has no money. She spent everything she had on your father’s experimental treatments, and they were broke by the time he passed away.”
“Treatments?” The moment I ask the question, the information is suddenly there in my head, which is weird as fuck. I hold up a hand and stop him when he starts to respond. “Forget it. I just blanked there for a second.”
Some facts about this…life, I guess…run through my head at full speed.
Apparently, my father had early onset Alzheimer’s, diagnosed as Stage Two when he was sixty, and then he ended up dying of a heart attack. He was only sixty-five.
And my parents, who never cut me off as they threatened, have been in my life this entire time. That’s why my mother moved in with me — no rift between us ever existed — and why my sudden hostility is shocking to her and Oliver.
Now I’m going to have to apologize even if I don’t understand a damn thing that’s going on or why the hell I can’t wake up from what has to be a dream. One that is so unbelievably real.
“You should eat something,” Oliver says gently, coming around the bed to slip his hand into mine and my stomach grumbles at his words. “See? Come on, you’ll feel better when there’s food in you.”
I let him lead me out of the room without another word, but mostly because with all the information in my head now, there’s nothing about how I’m with Oliver and not Zach. Actually, there’s no details about either of them at all, which is disturbing all on its own.
A quick rub of my ring finger on my left hand with my thumb finds two rings there, so we must be married. But that kid can’t be ours even if he refers to Oliver as Dad; he looks too much like Zach for that to be possible.
Which leaves me with plenty of questions such as where is he? And what the hell happened between us?
I want to ask Oliver but don’t because that’s absolutely something I should know. Hopefully, it will come to me before Oliver decides I should see a doctor for my head.
Neither the kids nor my mother is in the kitchen when we enter. Oliver guides me to the table and returns with a plate of pancakes less than a minute later.
“Kept them warm for you,” he says, grabbing the syrup and pouring me a glass of orange juice, before sitting down across from me and handing me a fork. “There.”
I have a niggling sensation he does this often because he does it all so smoothly. Nodding, I start eating while he pulls out his cellphone, leans back in his chair, and taps at the screen while casting occasional glances in my direction.
Once I’ve taken the last bite and set down my fork, he puts the phone down on the table, reaches across the table, and covers my hand with his. “Are you okay for me to go to work or do you need me here for the pick-up in a bit?”
Not knowing what he’s talking about, I simply ask in true confusion, “Why would I need you here for that?”
“Things between you and Zach have been hostile lately, and after the episode with your mother earlier, perhaps it’s best I’m here when he picks up the kids for the weekend.”
Oh, I see. Zach has visitation.
My heart races at that. It doesn’t even matter why things are hostile between Zach and me; it won’t be any different than how he acted before this whole bizarre dream, after all. What matters is that I will get to see him and perhaps figure out why we’re not together.
I shake my head and smile at him. “No, you were right. I feel much better now that I’
ve eaten. Go on to work.”
“All right. You’ll call me if you don’t feel well again, though.”
A demand formed as a request. I can’t help but wonder what made this Oliver more confident than the one I know. Either way, I grab my plate and rise from my seat while nodding at him again. “Yes, I will. I promise.”
“Good.” He stands up, too, and comes close enough to pull me in for a soft, sweet kiss on the lips. “I’ll be home by six.”
I resist the urge to suck in a breath at the sudden butterflies in my stomach from his kiss. “Okay.”
With that, he’s gone, so I take my plate to the sink and then decide to wash all the dishes. It doesn’t take long and when I’m done, searching for my cell phone is next as I’m sure it’s here somewhere and will fill in some holes.
Finding it in the bedroom by the bed, I slide my fingers across the screen and am grateful it opens up without asking for a pin. I’ve yet to use one on a phone of mine but at this point everything is unsure.
Amazing.
My whole life is now at my fingertips — from over 1,000 photos to my email, as well as both a Facebook and an Instagram profile — and I go with the one most likely to tell me the vital stuff.
Sitting on the bed, I open up the app and click around until I’m on the about page of my profile. Married to Oliver Thompson since July 31st, 2014 shows up under my relationships and nothing else. Switching to Life Events, I glance over the details until I find what I want to know: Gabriel Benjamin Haider, born July 1st, 2007 and Abigail Roselyn Haider, born September 20th, 2013.
What?
I blink at the dates and wonder how the hell our daughter is Zach’s, yet I married Oliver when she was just over ten months old.
Then, my stomach rolls and tightens as Oliver’s words about how things have been ‘hostile lately’ between Zach and I take on a whole new potential meaning. Yet, another look at the date on my phone — August 26th, 2016 — shows we’ve been married over two years now, so why would things be hostile recently if it has been that long?
Nothing comes to my mind, however. No matter how much I stare at the information, the whole situation is a blank except for the tiny bit of knowledge I’ve found on my own.
Switching over to the photos on Facebook, the result is the same. Not a damn thing. Going back past two years, there isn’t one single picture of Zach and me, just of the kids, me, my parents, and sometimes Oliver.
Of course, the more I search for something, anything, and don’t find it, the more dread settles in the pit of my stomach and won’t go away.
Why is the father of my children nowhere to be found in pictures dating back to their birth?
And why, as the doorbell chimes to probably announce his arrival, do I have the awful feeling whatever happened between us is more my fault than his in this life, too?
10
Zachary
For the first time since kicking me out of the house I designed — and the one I happily let her keep in the divorce — Darcy opens the door when I arrive to pick up the kids for the weekend, and she doesn’t glare at me.
Instead, she throws me off by greeting me with a smile. “Zach.”
Stunned at the genuine pleasure on her face, I step inside when she moves back to let me in, and return her welcome once she shuts the door. “Darcy. Are the kids ready?”
Glancing toward the stairs, she clears her throat and then shrugs with a hesitant expression. “My mother is with them.”
“Ah.” Slipping my keys into my pockets, I cross my arms over my chest, intrigued with the sudden difference in Darcy’s attitude toward me. “How’s she doing?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“Good.”
As she stands there staring at me, her hands twisting together, it becomes harder by the second to ignore her unusual behavior.
Although I never took much notice of what she wore when we were married, it has been a good while since I’ve seen her in what anyone would call normal clothing. Usually, she wears her pajamas when answering the door, so until this moment her pregnancy hadn’t been visible as it is now.
The fact the baby isn’t mine is the worst part.
Because I shouldn’t dwell on it, and she’s suddenly being so nice, I say something certain to annoy her. I hope it will bring back the typical Darcy I’m used to as well as help me avoid saying something stupid. “Pregnancy looks good on you, as always.”
“Thanks,” she says, lifting her hands to place them on her stomach as her face colors at the compliment.
She’s blushing? I haven’t seen her do that since high school. What the fuck?
“Ah…” Since the kids aren’t coming down, and she continues to stand there looking at me instead of going to get them, I nod my head toward the steps. “Mind if I go see if they’re ready to go?”
“No, not at all. Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” In case she changes her mind, as she has plenty of times for many things, I leave her standing by the door and am upstairs in less than thirty seconds flat.
Her mother greets me when I’m halfway down the hallway as she walks out of Gabe’s room.
“Zachary.”
I always enjoy the way she says my name; she’s never been able to completely remove all the disdain she feels from the word. “Paula.”
This is the first time she’s had a private moment with me since she moved in. She doesn’t even take a breath before launching into a speech, which is one I’m sure she’s been itching to share since her arrival last year.
“Ten years ago, I thought you were the worst thing to ever happen to my daughter. I was sure you killed any chance of her finishing her education and that she would never have a life similar to what she was accustomed. You proved both me and her father wrong by providing a wonderful life for her and the children; for that, I’m grateful.” She purses her lips when I acknowledge her praise with a nod. “And then, when I heard you were getting divorced, there was no doubt in my mind Darcy must’ve done something to make it happen because you’ve never struck me as the sort of man who would want his family split up. But I was wrong.”
“Things happen.” And they do. Plus, I know she doesn’t have the whole story because Darcy would never admit everything to her parents. “It’s better this way.”
“Is it?” She shakes her head, the disappointment she often leveled at Darcy now directed at me. “Why did you do it?”
Such a loaded question, but there’s only one answer that matters. “Because her sadness made both of us unhappy.”
“Oh, pish. Nobody’s happy in their marriage all the time.”
“That may be true for someone. However, she was miserable, and I knew the way she thought. She wouldn’t leave because of the idea that a mother suffers for her children’s sake, even if it isn’t what’s best for her.”
“So, instead of counseling or spending more time together, you give her a real reason to divorce you and never look back. How mature.”
She’s wrong about both of those things. We spent plenty of time together, and when that didn’t work, we went to quite a few counseling sessions.
But that’s the one thing about feelings. Mine were stronger than ever; Darcy’s weren’t. And you can’t breathe life into something that’s been dead for longer than your spouse wants to admit out loud.
Have I kicked myself plenty of times for deliberately hurting the only woman I’ve ever loved just so she would be brave enough to leave a marriage she wasn’t fulfilled in any longer? Yes, absolutely. It’s been killing me every day since, especially as my actions broke her trust in me, but I freed her with the one thing I despise more than anything in the world — a lie.
One she’ll never know the truth about and neither will her mother; not even if Darcy smiles at me like my arrival here is the happiest moment of her day as she did downstairs moments ago.
“She wanted him,” I state flatly. “And we were done.”
“If that’s true, then why is she s
o angry over your upcoming wedding?”
I wish I knew, but it doesn’t matter, and I give her mother the only answer I can think of. “Perhaps it’s hard for her to imagine someone else becoming a mother figure to our children, the same way it was hard for me to acknowledge Oliver taking on that of a parental role when they are here at home.”
With that, I hope the conversation is at an end, and it is as Gabe exits his room and steps into the hallway with his backpack filled to bursting on his back, ready to go as much as I am.
And Abby, her mother’s daughter down to her attitude, appears a second later, flying down the hall in our direction while squealing, “Daddy!”
I crouch down, catching her tiny body in my arms to give her a hug, and then stand up again. “Say bye to your Grandmother.”
They do, in a flurry of hugs and kisses, and we head downstairs to the car. As I open the door, they both run off to find Darcy to say goodbye to her, and she shocks me by returning with them to the foyer.
“I’ll have them back on Sunday by six, as usual.”
“Oh. Don’t stress about it,” she says with a wave of her hand. “I’m hardly going to be mad about you being late when you’re spending time with them.”
Huh. Unbelievable.
I don’t know what to say because getting mad when I keep them over the time is exactly what she does, citing how it puts them behind schedule for bed that night, which also messes up things for her.
Considering they will be returned on time, I don’t say anything at all in response to her complete one-eighty and nod as the kids walk past me out the door. “All right. See you then.”
“Yeah.” She puts her hand on her stomach and gazes at me with the same soft look from earlier. “See you.”
I head out, shutting the door behind me with a soft click, and after a bit of rationalization on my part, I chalk up her softened attitude as a result of her finally coming to terms with my re-marriage and put all my focus on where it should be for the rest of the weekend — enjoying the time with my kids.
