When Girlfriends Let Go

by Savannah Page

  In just a few days’ time Lara’s saying she’s on the slow but steady path to recovery, especially after having seen Nathan one last time to exchange a few forgotten items. (And I’m sure the gift basket played a part, too.)

  Andrew’s come home from the office at a decent hour a measly one time this week, bringing with him pizza for dinner. It was one of our many stay-at-home dates I wish I could exchange for a real night out on the town.

  In the meantime, I’m learning just how gratifying revenge can be. It’s been a while since I’ve tasted the sweet nectar and release of the ‘R’ word. Venting at my shrink session this week, getting the gift basket for Lara, and, of course, giving Nathan an original Jackie Kittredge piece of art have all come together to help me feel so much better about the whole sordid mess that is life.

  My shrink, Dr. Pierce, of course, told me seeking revenge or searching for peace shouldn’t necessarily be found at the expense of someone’s car, but what the hell? The bastard’s gone from our lives now, and we’re all the better for it.

  And the fool! I don’t think he even noticed what I’d done, seeing how there was never any resentful banging on Lara’s door that evening. We poured some Chardonnay and tuned in to Netflix to help her get over the loser. Emily’s agreed that it’s probably best we keep my ditty with the keys a secret between us; no need to get Lara’s panties in a twist over some guy who shouldn’t have anything to do with her…or her panties.

  As for having a heart-to-heart with Andrew, I’ve decided to leave that on the back burner for now—for a few days or so. I’m probably daft to think there’s anything going on with Nikki, or any woman for that matter. Lara told me I was definitely insane, and that’s coming from a woman who’s just been burned! Not to mention, things have been fairly pleasant between Andrew and I. Well, not exactly enjoyable or fun or anything like that, but at least we’re not bickering, and at least he’s not spending all of his evenings at the office.

  Besides, Valentine’s Day is just around the corner, and I’d hate to get into a giant row before the possible festivities. I have a feeling Andrew’s got something special planned for us. I’m not sure what, but I did see some flight search tabs opened on his laptop the other night, and guess what the destination entered was? Hawaii! Oh, how dreamy would that be?

  I’m already fantasizing about lounging on white sand beaches wearing skimpy designer bikinis, sipping fruity, neon-colored beverages with little umbrellas and wedges of pineapple in them, Andrew rubbing oil all over my body, us making passionate love in a bungalow or a regal resort, hell, the ocean, even—but then my cell phone startles me, bringing me back to reality.

  I don’t recognize the caller ID, so I answer slowly, “Hello?”

  “Jackie!”

  “Bobby?” I say, puzzled. “What’s up?”

  “It’s Robin.”

  “What?” I blurt. Bella leaps from my lap as I jolt forward from the living room sofa.

  “She’s in labor.” His voice is a peculiar mixture calm and frazzled.

  “What? Labor?” I put a hand to my forehead. “How? She’s supposed to have a C-section next week. How can she be in labor?”

  “Phillip’s decided today’s the day,” Bobby says with nervous laughter. “Robin wanted me to call all the girls and let you know if you want to come. We’re at Swedish Medical. Ask for Sinclair.”

  ***

  “Is he here yet?” Claire asks, rushing around the corner of the bland, cream- and turquoise-colored waiting room at the hospital. It’s a sterile area with cold, hard chairs that look like something from a futuristic airport lounge.

  “We got here as soon as we could!” Claire shrieks. She quickly catches her breath. “Go figure! The one day this week I’m not scheduled to work at the hospital, I’m not in the area, and Robin goes into labor.” She plops down into the sterile seat next to me, clearly distraught.

  Claire’s also, like Emily, one of those soft souls, do-gooder types. She works in the medical field as a healthcare worker. She tends to elderly patients at the hospital and goes around from home to home providing in-home care, too.

  Claire’s husband, Conner, follows two steps behind her, his slightly disheveled, sandy-blonde hair looking much more askew than usual.

  “Did we miss it?” Conner pants, clutching his chest. “Please tell me we didn’t miss it.” He collapses into a seat next to his wife, whose eyes are the size of ping pong balls. “Claire will be devastated if we missed it.”

  “Nope,” Emily says, looking up from her camera, which she’s been staring at for the past forty-five minutes, scanning through photos. “Still waiting.”

  “Good!” Claire says loudly, fanning her ruddy, peaches-and-cream skin. “I can’t wait to meet this little guy. Can you believe this is happening?”

  “Eventually the kid’s got to come out,” Conner says lazily, picking up a Mommy and Baby magazine.

  Claire playfully slaps him on his cut, tan bicep. “Oh, stop it.” She shakes her head, her pillow of curls bouncing about.

  I take a peek at my cell phone, hoping I’ve somehow magically missed an expected return call from Andrew.

  No such luck, I think when I see the empty home screen. Always the same story. I scratch at my head and toss the phone back into my bag.

  Immediately after Bobby called with the exciting news, I rang up Andrew’s cell phone, deciding this was much too urgent a matter to leave in Nikki’s trust. As I anticipated, though, he didn’t pick up. The damn thing went straight to voicemail, which tells me that he has the thing set to Do Not Disturb mode.

  “Is Lara coming?” Claire asks. “I already called Sophie to see if she was on her way.” She withdraws a thick book from her bag. “She’s going to leave the café just as soon as Gatz gets back from class.”

  “I assume Lara’s coming,” Emily answers.

  I bite my bottom lip in anxiety and pull my phone back out. I turn on the home screen. Still no missed calls, no text messages, nothing.

  When I couldn’t get a hold of Andrew, I finally resorted to calling his office. I’d left a message with Nikki. It was filled with urgency, and I told her that if she could interrupt whatever important meeting Andrew had going on with my message—if any message then please! this one!—it would mean the world.

  “I’ll do what I can,” she said in her nasally tone. “He’s really swamped, Jackie. There is a very important client meeting with him today.”

  Yeah, yeah, what else is new? But Andrew promised he’d be by my side when Robin delivered Phillip. I asked him to commit to that, and since it was important to me, he said he’d be there.

  But now, as I pan about the hospital’s waiting room and nervously check my phone an umpteen amount of times, this is looking to be yet another promise Andrew will have failed to keep.

  Before long, Sophie arrives on the scene in a flushed mess, one cheek actually dusted with a swipe of flour, her stained apron still on.

  “Not having an update is tough,” Claire says, closing her book, her thumb holding her place in between the thick bind of pages. “I hope Robin’s doing all right.” A small look of panic begins to cover her face.

  “I’m sure she’s doing very well,” Emily says assuredly.

  “I wonder if she’s actually able to deliver,” Sophie says, her apron now gone, revealing a cute ensemble of black, slim-fit jeans and a white, three-quarter-length cotton blouse rolled to the elbows. “What with Robin needing a C-section and all.”

  Claire holds up her book and says, “If what I’ve read is correct, it’s actually possible. Difficult, but not impossible.”

  “You brought a how-to book with you?” I ask with a disbelieving laugh. I don’t know why it’s hard to believe, though, seeing how Claire is deep in pram-pushing/pacifier-popping mode.

  Conner motions towards the long hallway that we’ve been forbidden to enter per the notification of the husky nurse at the desk. “Claire’s having my semen sampled as soon as Robin’s finished up in
there,” he kids.

  Claire gives Conner a petulant look. “I am not, you big goof.” She opens her book and thumbs past a few pages. “I’m reading this for informational purposes.”

  Conner chuckles to himself and returns to skimming through his women’s magazine.

  “Looks like you’re reading for informational purposes, too, Conner,” Emily says teasingly, leaning over and poking at his magazine.

  “Nah,” he says breezily. “Just reading this for the bare boob pictures.”

  “Ugh,” Sophie groans, resting the side of her head in her palm. “There’s nothing sexy about breastfeeding.”

  “I beg to differ,” Conner says, eyebrows raised.

  “Hey,” Lara’s voice appears suddenly.

  “You made it!” Emily cries. She pats the hard, open seat next to her.

  “The girl with a million things to do at work is actually here,” Sophie says in jest.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Lara says. “Take it easy on me. I’m in recovery mode still.” She takes a seat next to Emily, unbuttoning her cappuccino-colored power suit. “I’m excused from all teasing for…at least one month.” She smiles and sits up eagerly. “So I didn’t miss it, did I?”

  “No,” Claire says, looking up momentarily from her book. “We don’t know if she’s delivering or is having the C-section or…anything.” She scrunches up her face, then returns to her reading.

  I retrieve my cell phone, hoping Andrew’s seen the two texts I’ve sent him, or at least received the two messages I left with Nikki since I learned of the labor news.

  “Ugh,” I groan when I’m not surprised by the ever-blank screen.

  “Andrew will call you when he can, Jackie,” Emily says in a drawn out way, as if she’s had enough from my matinee dose and doesn’t want to see the evening showing.

  “I know,” I whine. “But this is a big deal. He said he’d be here.” I drop my bag to the floor and turn sideways in my chair. I prop my heeled feet on the armrest.

  “Babies can come suddenly like this,” Emily says kindly. “Could be tough on his busy schedule, the spontaneity of it and all.”

  “True,” Sophie says, removing her messy bun from atop her head. She waves out her long, silky hair, then methodically begins to wind it into a fresh bun.

  I know it’s important to Robin that her best girlfriends be here when Phillip’s born, and I know she probably doesn’t feel one way or the other about the husbands coming along for the ride, but Conner’s here. Conner and Claire love each other, and his being here for her is a testament to that, however small.

  “Don’t let Andrew spoil your evening,” Emily says.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I agree with a small smile.

  “Here.” Conner tosses a magazine my way. “Get your mind off it by reading one of these. For the articles, of course,” he says with a giggle.

  “I’ve got something to get your mind off of Andrew,” Lara says rather abruptly. She turns sharply in her seat and her eyes bore into mine slightly threateningly.

  “What?” I squeak out.

  “A little matter involving, oh…” She places a dark red fingertip on her lips, tilts her head, and melodramatically says, “…a key, a car, and a very pissed off ex-boyfriend.”

  I press my lips together tightly and avert my eyes to Conner.

  “Jackie!” Lara says. “It was you, wasn’t it? You keyed Nathan’s car, didn’t you?”

  “Now, girls,” Emily says calmly. She sets her camera aside and rests a hand on Lara’s shoulder.

  “Jackie,” Lara says again.

  “Conner!” I say in a quaky voice. “I’ll see that magazine about the boobs right about now.”

  “Jackie!” Lara crosses her arms over her puffed out chest.

  “Lara, it was for your own good,” I rush out, reaching for Conner’s magazine, but he’s holding it back and laughing.

  “He got what he deserved,” I tell Lara. “You need to stand up for yourself, and what are friends for? I can’t stand by and watch him do that to you!”

  “So it was you.” She claps a hand to her head.

  “Duh, it was me.” I slink back, giving up on trying to retrieve a magazine distraction.

  “He’s seriously pissed!”

  “Good. He deserves to have his feathers ruffled, the jackass.”

  “Oh, Jackie.” She wags her head heartily. “I love you, but sometimes you can be so…so…”

  “Let’s not say anything anyone’d regret, girls,” Claire says willfully. “Happy time. This is a happy time.”

  “Hey,” a deep voice sounds from across the room. The discussion is too hot for anyone to pay it any attention, though.

  “She was only doing what she thought was best, Lara,” Emily comes to my defense. “Yes, it was a stupid thing—a very, very stupid thing—but it’s done and over with.”

  “He could sue,” Lara says, mouth drawn tight.

  “Did you tell him it was me?” I ask, edgy. Andrew would kill me if he found out I’d gone and gotten myself into a potential lawsuit. And if Nathan knew it was me—loaded Jackie—he’d really have my head.

  “No,” Lara says. “I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about, but…” She sighs. “Jackie, you can’t just go all loose-cannon-like and—”

  “Girls!” the deep voice sounds again, but this time louder. It does the trick, and everyone looks over in its direction.

  It’s Bobby. He’s dressed in blue scrubs, one of those doctor facemasks attached around his ears and curled under his chin. He looks at us in a collective way, expression serious yet gentle.

  “Omigod!” Sophie exclaims, leaping from her seat. “Is he here?”

  “Phillip!” Claire begins to clap, her book falling to the floor in a clammer.

  We all wait on with bated breath as Bobby says, “She’s going into surgery right now.”

  Chapter Ten

  I don’t even bother turning on the lights. As I step foot in the foyer, the small stream of golden light from the twelfth-floor hallway creeps farther in—inch by inch. The marble flooring is cold on my bare feet. The air isn’t much warmer, and neither is my mood. I let the door click closed behind, and the dark swallows me.

  Eventually the crescent moonlight sprinkles into the home, sparkling off of Elliott Bay and bouncing off of the various glass and metallic vases, frames, and minimalistic décor.

  I feel my way through the foyer and into the living room, my fingers grazing the light switch. I power the bar upwards so that only a low glow similar to the one in the outside hallway fills the room.

  09:23 reads the digital clock on the oven.

  I don’t need the time or the darkness of the townhouse to tell me that my husband is spending after-hours at the office. Again. They’re only loud and painful reminders.

  With abandon, I drop my bag onto the floor, along with the high heels I took off the instant I stepped into the lobby, too tired to make it another step in those high numbers after four long hours at Swedish Medical, waiting on pins and needles for Phillip’s arrival. I make a beeline for the kitchen cupboards and retrieve a glass.

  Everything went well with the birth. Robin and Bobby are now the proud parents of the cutest bundle of boy joy, and Rose is a big sister.

  After Robin was taken to her recovery room, and once Phillip was looked after, we all got to meet the wrinkled guy, and my-oh-my is he a sweetheart! I didn’t think it was possible to feel my heart ache—almost thinking I wanted a baby of my own—when I held the helpless bundle. The way he cooed and slightly stirred in my arms was the most endearing thing in the world. I remember holding Rose for the first time and having similar feelings—as if the rest of life’s troubles kind of melt and drip away, like ice cream down a cone on a hot August day. And you don’t even feel the residue down your hand or get perturbed. Every trouble that plagues you plunges into some unknown depths, and you’re all alone with the most beautiful thing life can produce—life itself.

  Then
Phillip began to wail, as I recall Rose having done when I first held her, and I quickly handed him off to an awaiting and proud Bobby.

  As Phillip was calmed down and passed from Sophie on to Lara and on round the circle of his aunts and Uncle Conner, that ice cream cone of worries went in rewind. The melty parts zipped back upwards onto the cone and became frozen. They started to build higher and higher, in fact. It was like my world’s troubles were back, and no new nephew could cure them. The troubles seemed to be even more evident, more compounded, more troublesome.

  Eight o’clock was approaching, and I still hadn’t heard from Andrew. Come nine o’clock, as I was on my way out of the First Hill medical district and heading into Downtown on my way home, I decided I was not married to a chronically late, career-obsessed man; I was married to a philanderer. What other explanation could there be for him not returning my most urgent of calls? To ignore the four text messages I sent him?

  I throw back the shallow pour of whiskey and stare through the vast floor-to-ceiling living room windows and out across the midnight-blue bay. He’s cheating, I think to myself. There’s no other explanation.

  I pour another helping of whiskey, this one not as shallow, and bring the glass to my lips but stop when I hear the jingling of keys in the front door lock.

  I set the glass down on the counter, ignoring the loud clank it makes when it lands, and race into the foyer.

  “There’s my baby,” Andrew’s voice trills. Still maneuvering his keys out of the lock, his wool coat slung over a bent arm carrying his briefcase, I do all I can to contain the words on the tip of my tongue.

  But I can’t.

  “You asshole!” I holler.

  He whips suddenly around, brow knit in confusion.

  “You asshole!” I raise a hand to hit him, but he drops his keys and catches it.

  “Start again,” he says, tone low. “What’s the problem?”

  I wriggle free from his firm grasp. “You know exactly what my problem is, Andrew.” I can feel my body start to shake, but now’s not the time to chicken out. Now, in fact, is the time to have that talk—that long-awaited, much-needed talk. I may be a bit sloshed from the whiskey, my judgment not the keenest, but I’m so incensed I can’t think of anything I want to do more than tell my husband just what I think of him, of us, of our sham of a marriage!