WORTHY, Part 2 (The Worthy Series)

by Lexie Ray

The damage inside of my heart was much worse, anyways, and probably a bigger bitch to repair. It would probably always be leaking for the rest of my life, no matter how many times I tried to patch it.

  Pushing some windows open to dispel the damp and mustiness of a place that hadn’t been lived in for a year or more, I checked my phone again out of habit — a habit I hoped to be breaking soon. Nothing. Not even one bar of service. Being cut off so thoroughly from the outside world was something of a comfort. Nobody could reach me. Nobody knew where I was. And, in a couple weeks, when Jonathan did return from abroad, I wouldn’t have to deal with him as long as I was all the way out here.

  Had I run away from my problems? Sure. Had I out and out fled when the going got tough? Maybe. But it was a tactical retreat, something I felt needed to be done, especially since I didn’t understand the enemy I was fighting.

  The enemy that was the man I loved.

  I thought I would’ve been tired after my emotionally impossible day, but I wasn’t. I didn’t want to lie down in my bed and try to rest. The ghost of Jonathan’s presence haunted me there. I was too sure I’d feel his arms slip around me, hold me, promise me that everything was going to be all right even though I knew that nothing could be.

  The happiest times I’d had at this place were with him.

  I found an unopened can of coffee and plugged in the coffeemaker, intent on exorcising Jonathan’s pervasive presence from the cottage. If I were the type to light sage and waft it up into the corners of every room, I’d do that.

  As it was, I gathered my cleaning supplies as the coffee brewed, taking careful inventory of what I had and what I needed to replace. I needed to reorganize myself, to take careful stock of what I had and what I didn’t.

  Had: A full pot of fresh coffee.

  Didn’t have: Enough ammonia to wash the windows of the cottage both inside and out.

  Had: A reliable broom, mop, and dustpan.

  Didn’t have: Clean rags for dusting and wiping down every surface.

  Had: My relative health, my continuing existence, my tentative hope for a better future.

  Didn’t have: The love of my life, my husband, Jonathan.

  I poured a cup of coffee and sipped on it, the warm brew pooling in the pit of my stomach, which pitched and yawed in protest. Why was it reacting like this? I loved coffee. It was as if everything inside me had changed, from my thoughts and feelings to my most basic needs and wants. I was nowhere near the girl I used to be when I last lived out here. That person was good and innocent, perhaps a little hung up on her past and her scarring, but open to love. Being with Jonathan had made me grow so much as a person. He’d helped me realize that I couldn’t run away from life forever.

  I thought about my lunch with Ash Martin, about admitting that I wasn’t ready to move on from the tragedy in my life. I wanted to hang onto my scar like some sort of sick totem of my parents, some kind of badge of horror to keep people away. I loved my parents, and it had nearly destroyed me to lose them. I couldn’t do that with another person. I used my scar to keep everyone away.

  Maybe I was now ready to move on. Maybe I’d eventually go back to the city and get the surgery. I was more than ready to leave this life behind, to step forward as a new person.

  I’d have to go back to the city, anyways, to engage my family’s lawyer — especially if Jonathan was intent on ending things once he returned.

  I could only finish half the coffee before I set it down again. I hoped the caffeine would give me enough strength to do what I had to do — banish Jonathan from the cottage once and for all and transform it back into my own personal refuge.

  I found an old T-shirt in my room and ripped it up into rags, marveling at the fact that I’d ever worn it at all. I was so used to well-fitted dresses and blouses and labels that all of my old things looked shabby.

  I dusted like a woman possessed, using the broom to banish cobwebs from the ceiling and windows, driving out the dust bunnies from beneath the furniture, shoving around the heavier pieces to reach every nook and cranny.

  I slopped buckets of water over the floor, mopping up the must and mildew, scraping at the places that had been leaked on, resolving to sand the entire floor down and refinish it.

  I had all the time in the world, now, and needed things to fill it. I’d done this before. I’d been alone before. And though it had been lonely some of the time, I knew that I could do it. I could be by myself.

  I needed to be by myself.

  Throwing all the windows open to dry out the floors and banish the smell of disuse, I hauled all the cushions outside and beat the dust out of them before leaving them to air out. I stripped all the linens from the bed, gathered the towels, and threw all of my old clothes into the washing machine. As the machine finished, I hung as many items out on the line as I possibly could. Dawn was breaking, and I knew they’d get good sunshine and fresh air. What didn’t fit I dried traditionally, in my dryer. I was pleased that all of my appliances were still in good working order despite my long absence.

  I was home. This was home. I was back, and I’d stay here forever now.

  I took careful stock of the things I had versus the things I needed, writing down the supplies that would be essential to me staying here at the cottage again. Most of my items were low, but I’d remedy that soon enough. The short break to forage inside the cupboards and pantry was all I needed to gather my strength for my second wind of cleaning.

  Scrubbing the bathroom worked me into a lather, but every surface inside it gleamed, and I felt better with each dull fixture I shined. The kitchen was next on my list, the physical act of scrubbing until I sweated and grunted becoming a cathartic exercise. Each item I wiped down was another part of me inside that I was healing. Each patch of dirt I sponged up and washed out was Jonathan, out of my life again.

  If I could have forgotten about him, I would have. I wanted nothing more than to erase the last couple years of my life, to go back to the way things were before.

  Even as that stray thought crossed my mind, I knew it wasn’t true. I could no more forget about the man I’d fallen in love with, the man I’d married, than he could suddenly remember what had happened before he hit his head in the woods and nearly died in the storm.

  Or at least that’s what I’d been led to believe.

  As I went through the volumes of romance novels and other paperbacks on my bookshelf, tossing the ones that had mildewed into a pile of things I was going to burn, I thought about the things that Jane and Brock had said, the troubling little nuggets I’d learned about the man my husband used to be.

  Brock had said that they used to share women. Jane had said that she wouldn’t put faking his injuries past him.

  But neither of those wicked revelations fit with the man I’d given my entire heart to. I couldn’t believe that. If I’d fallen for a con, what did that say about me?

  I’d rather he have cheated on me with Violet and just admit it than to have been played for a fool.

  Of course, Jonathan would never admit it. He had been vehemently opposed to the very thought of it, even when I’d sent him the photo of him and Violet kissing outside the Parthenon. Nothing was adding up for me, but I supposed it never made sense when you were betrayed by the man you loved.

  He could’ve at the very least confessed to the fact that he’d been seeing Violet while he was abroad. There were too many photos in existence for him to deny that, too, but he had all the same.

  As the sun rose over the tall trees at the edge of the clearing, I hauled a box full of old things that had been ruined from the damp while I’d been away — a few clothing items, more books than I liked to see, and the rags of the shirt I’d used to clean the cottage from top to bottom. The fabric scraps would’ve been perfectly fine for a subsequent session of cleaning, but I didn’t want to use them again. I’d burn them, and the exorcism would be complete.

  Jonathan would no longer haunt the cottage with me.

  I poured a little
gasoline I found in a canister in the barn on the pile of goods and set them aflame. It was good to watch the fire, and better to see the smoke waft overhead. This meant that I didn’t have to feel like this anymore. I could let all of the sadness and insecurity and horror drift away like the smoke from my fire.

  I thought I’d feel lighter after the items turned to ash, but I didn’t. My stomach did its now-infamous flip-flop, and I dashed from the smoldering fire and into the house, making it to the bathroom just in time to puke up every last shred of food and liquid I’d consumed.

  That made it a disgusting soup of string beans and coffee. God. If I had it my way, I’d never have either of them again. I knew how foolish the thought was as soon as it crossed my mind. If I was outlawing all food and drink that I’d puked back up at some point, I would starve before long. I’d been sick for longer than I should’ve I realized, and began to get worried.

  I wiped my mouth and sat back on my heels, feeling dizzy, despondent, and downright depressed. Could this wretched nausea really be tied to my mood and all the drama surrounding me right now? There was enough going wrong to make me believe it.

  I retched again, my stomach empty, and all I came up with was a foul, electric green-colored mess that I knew to be bile. I’d reached that point — the very bottom of what I had to offer to the porcelain god. Vomiting water would be more pleasant at this point, but I was too tired to get myself a glass.

  I tried to take stock of what was going on with me, casting around for a solution. The throwing up was like clockwork, and I often felt weak alongside it. My appetite was consistently off, and while I had trouble sleeping at night, I napped too much during the day.

  My world was topsy-turvy. Why wouldn’t my body be reacting like this?

  Still, the nasty green bile that I’d stared at in the toilet bowl was enough to make me wonder if I maybe should’ve seen a doctor before leaving Chicago. There was nothing anywhere near my cottage, and the gas tank in the car I’d taken was dangerously low.

  I wasn’t normally like this. It was completely frustrating to not have planned ahead. Before, when I lived here at the cottage by myself, I was all about planning. Planning was a requirement to live through the winter, to sustain myself, to survive.

  I’d leaned on Jonathan for so long, depending on him to carry me through, that I’d forgotten how to take care of myself.

  It had been nice to have that support at times, nice to feel loved, to feel like I belonged with someone. But now I felt that I’d lost an essential cog to the machine I used to call myself. I’d had to open myself to Jonathan, to make room for his love, and now that I didn’t have it anymore, there was an empty place inside of me that robbed me of normalcy.

  I heaved one more time — there was nothing, not even bile to bring up — and stared into the toilet bowl. What was wrong with me? Why did I feel so physically awful? Was it really because of Jonathan?

  Yes. Yes, it really could be because of Jonathan, some deep portion of my soul whispered to me, and it was then that everything fell into place. As stunning of a realization it was, as terrified as I felt, it all made sense. Every last one of my various physical maladies.

  It was then that I realized I was pregnant.

  Chapter Nine

  Pregnant wasn’t ever a word I’d intended to describe myself with. Pregnant was for other people, about other people, defining their lives and redefining everything with a single word.

  Pregnant. I couldn’t really be, could I?

  But it all made sense. I wasn’t an idiot. I knew the signs, knew the symptoms, understood that I’d been missing periods since two months before the wedding and had simply chalked it up to stress. After my parents died, it was a whole year before I saw the blossom of blood dotting the crotch of my panties again.

  Even then, I had always thought that I was barren. My body had gone through a terrible amount of stress during the car wreck that had killed my parents, and my doctors told me that there was a strong possibility that I would never have children.

  At that point, it had been completely fine with me. Never have children? I had never even thought that far in advance. I barely wanted to live myself, let alone bring another, new life into this terrible world.

  The only time I ever really felt bereft was when I read a touching pregnancy revelation scene in one my novels — the happy news, the husband placing his hands gently over the growing stomach of his beloved wife, their pledges to raise what they’d made together, bestowing only the best of themselves in its tiny little mind.

  There was something there that made me yearn for the ability — and someone to create a baby with — but it was just another piece of my penance for my parents’ deaths.

  There would never be a baby — until now.

  I managed to get myself to my feet in spite of my weakness, exhaustion, and shock and drank some water. I placed my own hand over my stomach — it was slightly swollen from the wretched puking — and thought about the child within me. It was more than a possibility at this point. More than a longing after reading a couple of pages of highly wrought words on the romanticism of parenthood.

  This was it. I was pregnant. Or at least I was pretty sure I was.

  I’d taken my iPad simply for the Internet, and fired up my router and wireless. I needed to contact my old grocery supplier and get some things out here. The refrigerator was emptier than it had ever been, but there was still one non-edible item I listed on the order form first.

  1) Pregnancy test

  2) Powdered milk

  3) 10 pounds frozen beef

  4) 10 pounds frozen chicken

  5) 10 pounds frozen pork

  6) 5 gallons canned fruit salad

  7) Ammonia

  8) 3 dozen eggs

  9) 10 cans frozen orange juice

  10) 10 pounds flour

  11) 10 pounds sugar

  12) 10 packets yeast

  There was more I could use than that, but I didn’t want to overwhelm them. The pregnancy test was the thing I wanted the most. I hit submit, agreed to pay a little extra for a rush delivery, and sat down in one of the kitchen chairs for a moment to rest.

  I took stock of my damaged heart and tried to make sense of what had just transpired. I’d just realized that there was a high likelihood of me being pregnant.

  That would, of course, mean I was still inextricably tied to Jonathan, even after everything I’d just done to the cottage to rid my life of him.

  I stood up, aiming to check on the laundry drying outside and see if any of it was ready to be brought in, when my knees buckled and I sank to the floor. I needed something to eat, and I needed to sleep. I just didn’t know what my stomach would tolerate.

  I dug into the back of the cupboard and located a small plastic container with a foil top — applesauce. My stomach grumbled at the prospect, and I hoped it was in anticipation instead of disgust. Without bothering with a spoon, I drank the applesauce down and waited a few tense moments. When it stayed put, I walked carefully back to the bedroom and flopped down on the bare mattress, too tired to care about getting the sheets from outside, too exhausted to want to think about anything else but sleep.

  -----

  A brisk knock on the door woke me up violently, thrashing to sit up on the bed. Was it Amelia, intent on making my life even more miserable than it already was? Jane, trying to get me to drink something toxic with her? Brock, wanting another taste of what he’d apparently already had?

  Or was it Jonathan, there with divorce papers for me to sign, ready to throw away everything we’d had together?

  It was then I realized that I wasn’t in Chicago. I was at the cottage in the woods, and nobody had any business knocking on my door.

  But when I heard the sound of a revving engine and the crunch of gravel under the tires, I realized that it was just my grocery delivery. That was quick.

  A check on the clock, however, revealed it to already be late afternoon. My body had forced me to shut dow
n, to try to recuperate for a while from the emotional shock and physical trauma of leaving the Wharton compound and coming out here.

  I opened the front door and pulled in the heavy boxes of supplies — everything I needed to start living anew out here. There was a folded piece of paper on top of one of the boxes, and I opened it, curious.

  “Welcome back to the cottage, Michelle,” it read. “We missed driving out here to make your deliveries. Nice car, by the way!”

  It was signed by several people — workers from the grocery store I always ordered my supplies from. I couldn’t help but smile at that. I’d been gone for more than a year and arrived back on the scene with a sleek BMW convertible. I wondered what gossip they dished up about me. If I could only be a fly on the wall of that grocery store — or in one of the delivery vans.

  I set to unpacking the boxes, putting each of the supplies away. It was heartening to fill the refrigerator and freezer again, but I stopped when I found the boxed pregnancy test.