Happily Ever Ninja (Knitting in the City #5)

by Penny Reid

  Even so, I attempted to keep my tone level and calm. “What could be too important for the greeting card aisle? It’s the perfect place to tell me anything and everything. There’s likely a card we can buy afterward for the occasion.”

  She huffed a laugh, laughed a bit more, and then began crying again.

  Her laughter was a good sign, so I went with it.

  “Let’s see . . .” I shuffled us both to the rack and plucked a greeting card from it. “You tell me if this one describes your situation.” I cleared my throat and began to read, “Dear Brother, Many blessings on your fortieth birthday. May your girlfriend bring home that hot girl she works with and suggest a three-way.”

  Fiona began laughing in earnest, burying her face against my chest.

  I returned the original card, walked us a few steps farther down the aisle, and selected another card at random. “Here’s another. Dear Friend, Thank you for your thoughtfulness. I am so lucky to have you in my life, especially after that time I hit you with my car and salted the earth around your house.

  I cracked a smile as I grabbed another card. She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

  “Dear Co-worker, Get well soon. Sorry about the scorpions in your bed. And the leprosy. And the chlamydia.”

  “Stop! I can’t- I can’t breathe.” Fiona gripped the front of my shirt as though she needed my solid frame to remain upright.

  I took one more step and picked a new card. “Dear Dad, Happy Father’s Day. I know I’m not your favorite child, but I hope you will . . . you will . . .” I stopped reading because Fiona had stopped laughing.

  In fact, she’d grown eerily still, though her fists remained anchored in my shirt. I don’t think she was even breathing.

  “Fe?”

  She released an audible exhale—as though bracing herself—and titled her head back. New tears shone in her eyes and she looked . . . emotional.

  Not sad. Not worried or scared. Just emotional.

  And I knew.

  “I’m going to be a dad,” I said.

  She nodded, her mouth wanting to smile but her eyes betraying the disordered chaos of her thoughts.

  I had no idea what she was thinking.

  I had no idea what I was thinking.

  But I felt like I’d just been punched, slapped across the face. And it felt scary. And good.

  I felt like I was the king of the universe, the luckiest man alive.

  I felt panic, because I didn’t know how to be a dad, at least not the kind I wanted to be.

  I felt a bizarre surge of pride, of accomplishment.

  I felt a heady wave of possessiveness, for this woman I loved, for the child we’d made. I felt responsible.

  But I did not feel burdened.

  And I knew nothing would ever be the same.

  CHAPTER 22

  Dear Wife,

  I walked over to you and asked, “You want to go get a doughnut?”

  Yep, that was the best line I had.

  Lucky for me you liked Krispy Kreme. Although we didn’t know it then, that night was the beginning of happily ever after. Now, 21 years and 6 kids later, it's still happily ever after.

  -G.

  Letter

  USA

  Married 21 years

  ~Present Day~

  *Fiona*

  After Elizabeth and Nico left, Greg, Jack, Grace, and I went out for pizza. Evading Greg’s searching gaze, I was mostly quiet, listening with all outward expression of rapt attention as Grace and Jack described their many adventures over the course of our absence.

  During the early afternoon dinner, I excused myself to the ladies’ room and called my OB’s office, catching them just before close. I made an appointment for the next day.

  When dinner was over, we took a walk in the snow. Arriving home, both Greg and I laid the kids down together. And then Grace got up seven times for a variety of reasons: she needed water, she was too hot, she was too cold, she lost her bunny, the bunny was too noisy, the bunny was too quiet, the bunny was mad at her.

  After the fifth bunny update, Greg offered to intervene with Grace, lay with her until she fell asleep, and I passed out before he came back to bed.

  When I awoke the next morning, I went through the motions of getting the kids ready for school, encouraging Greg to sleep in. I knew he figured I’d return after taking them in and we would finally talk, but that’s not what happened.

  I dropped Grace and Jack off to school, and then I took the train to my OB’s office.

  I had a sonogram, during which I gaped with renewed numbness and shock at the tiny person in my uterus, the beating heart, the tiny alien profile curled forward, tiny hands just visible. And then I was ushered into an exam room. I didn’t have much time with my jumbled thoughts or the glossy print-out pictures of my new little person before Dr. Freeman knocked, then strolled into the room.

  “Mrs. Archer, congratulations on your happy news,” he said, all cheerful and efficient smiles. “Eva is preparing your prenatal paperwork and payment schedule. Do you have any questions for me? I know you’re a veteran mom at this point, and very little has changed in the last five years since you had Grace.”

  My doctor bustled around the room, washing his hands, drying them, wheeling his stool over to the side of the exam table, sitting down, crossing his legs, smiling at me. “The kiddos still pop out at nine months with ten fingers and ten toes. The only difference I see now is that you’re over thirty-five. That means you’re of advanced maternal age, so we’ll need to do a few more tests.”

  I ignored the reference to my advanced age and asked the big question. “I don’t understand how this is possible.”

  My doctor lifted his eyebrows, as though I’d just capitulated to being ignorant of reproductive organs and how babies are made, so I sought to clarify. “Greg was fixed—er, snipped, had a vasectomy—five years ago, right after Grace was born.”

  Dr. Freeman tilted his chin, signaling his understanding of my confusion. “Ah. I see. Did he get the snip or the clamp?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hmm. Well, there have been cases of spontaneous reversal.”

  “Which means?”

  “When was the last time he had his sperm count checked?”

  I glanced around the exam room, wrestling with my memory. “I don’t know. At least three years ago.”

  “It appears your husband’s plumbing has righted itself. And now you’re pregnant.” He smiled merrily, as though this news should delight me.

  I glared at Dr. Freeman, not feeling cheerful. I didn’t feel at all cheerful. I was not at all delighted.

  His smile fizzled. He cleared his throat. “So . . .”

  “So . . .” I repeated, still glaring at him.

  He cleared his throat again and glanced at the screen to his left, where my electronic chart presumably detailed my status, and walk-wheeled himself over to the computer. “When was the start of your last cycle?”

  I struggled to remember the date. “It must’ve been December.”

  “That sounds about right. Are your periods regular?”

  “No. They’ve never been regular. Sometimes I go months without.”

  His eyes moved over me appraisingly. “Do you exercise a lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, the sonogram has you at fourteen weeks.”

  “I’m fourteen weeks.” Again I echoed, my throat tightening around the words.

  “We need to schedule you for the eighteen-week sonogram with the perinatal group. Again, due to your advanced age, we’ll treat you as high risk until we rule out complications.”

  If he mentioned my advanced age of thirty-six one more time I was prepared to knock him out.

  “Also, you’re due for some blood tests, but the panel they sent over as part of your oncology screening looks good. Assuming nothing has changed, your counts are great.”

  I squirmed in my paper gown, thinking back over the last week and all the risky�
��and outright dangerous—behaviors I’d engaged in. The big issue floated once again to the surface of my mind.

  “I do have a question.” I paused, waited for his gaze to meet mine before continuing. “I may have been dosed with Ketamine last week, enough to put me under for about fourteen hours.”

  He blinked at my statement, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. “You may have been dosed with Ketamine? Did you have surgery?”

  “No.”

  “What happened?”

  I struggled for a minute, releasing a pained sigh. “It’s a really long story.”

  Dr. Freeman stared at me, obviously waiting for me to continue.

  Figuring what the hell, I explained, “I rescued my husband last week from an illegal oil refinery in Nigeria and he drugged me with Ketamine in order to force me to leave without freeing the remaining hostages.”

  Dr. Freeman’s expression didn’t change, but he gave me two slow blinks before replying dryly, “Riiight. You don’t have to tell me what happened if you don’t want to.”

  Sigh.

  Stupid Greg and his stupid poking. Both the poking and the poking had landed me in this debacle of a conversation.

  Dr. Freeman turned back to the electronic medical record and typed as he spoke. “First I’d like to know the dose and have a sample of the drug if you have it. And we should do some additional blood tests. But, since the baby’s heart rate looks good, a one-time dose of Ketamine isn’t a disaster.”

  Something hot and panicky—a weight I’d been carrying, an albatross of guilt and worry—eased, and I took a full breath for the first time since being told I was pregnant. “So the baby should be fine?”

  “It’s likely, but I’d like to be sure,” he hedged. “I believe Ketamine is a class B drug. Since there are no controlled data in human pregnancy, it’s generally contraindicated. However, it can and is used as anesthesia while pregnant, which—from the sound of it—might be a similar dose to the one you took. I know of no case studies describing adverse effects to the fetus from a one-time dose.”

  Unthinkingly, I placed my hand over my abdomen and nodded. “That’s good news.”

  He considered me with a slanted frown. “In Asia, Ketamine is abused as a recreational drug and is correlated with full-term low birth weight. But that’s when it’s abused daily or weekly. You’re not abusing it daily or weekly, are you?”

  I shook my head. “No. It should be a one-time poking.”

  “A what?”

  “A one-time thing. I have no plans to be dosed with Ketamine ever again.”

  “Good. That’s good. Don’t use any other drugs, either.” He didn’t sound judgmental per se, but he wasn’t his normal cheerful self either. “Maybe focus on taking a prenatal vitamin should the urge grip you. I’ll leave a script for you at the front.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes and barely resisted the urge to respond with, So, no meth?

  Great. Now my obstetrician thought I was a recreational drug user. I was now branded as an advanced, maternal-aged recreational drug user.

  How lovely.

  ***

  Ice cream.

  It wasn’t that I was simply craving ice cream. Rather, my soul required it.

  On the way home I picked up four different flavors, unable to settle on just one. I also ordered shawarma from a takeout place near our apartment. It was another soul-deep necessity.

  I arrived home just past 11 a.m. to a grim-faced Greg. He greeted me with a stoic glower, hands on his hips. I ignored him—not because I was playing games or trying to make him suffer. Not at all. Rather, I ignored him because I wasn’t yet ready to engage. Not until I fed my soul some ice cream and shawarma.

  Avoiding his gaze, I walked past him to the kitchen and deposited my bags on the counter. He trailed after me. I felt his eyes track my movements as I pulled a bowl from the cabinet, a spoon from the drawer, and turned back to the ice cream and spiced meat.

  The kitchen was silent for several moments save for the sound of me spooning food onto my plate until Greg demanded, “Didn’t you get my messages?”

  “No.” I took a bite of my shawarma, followed by a spoonful of ice cream. “I turned my phone off.”

  “Why would you do that?” He sounded aggrieved, which part of me found ironic. He was perfectly fine leaving me tied up in Enugu while planning to hand himself over to goons, whereas I couldn’t leave him for two hours in Chicago without him throwing a glower-party.

  I sighed, still not looking at him. “Because I needed some time.”

  He waited a beat before pressing, “Fe, we just arrived home yesterday. We haven’t spoken—not really, not with any gravity—about what happened. And then you disappear this morning.”

  “And now I’m back.”

  “You can’t just leave like that, not without a note or a text, not after everything that’s happened.”

  I lifted my gaze to his, my movements stilling. “I’m sorry, did I worry you?” The words were out before I could stop them, dripping with accusatory sarcasm. “How incredibly thoughtless and selfish of me.”

  Greg glared at me, straightening his back and crossing his arms. “So, passive-aggressive is how you’re going to play this?”

  “Well, it’s either that or aggressive aggressive. And I’d prefer not to be arrested for domestic violence today. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “I know you’re angry—”

  “You have no clue how angry I am,” I hissed before taking another bite of ice cream.

  “But I’m not sorry I left you in Enugu. I can’t be sorry for wanting to keep you safe.”

  I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “You are arrogant and selfish—”

  Greg held up his hands, his tone turning severe and unapologetic, “Hey, I’ve never claimed to be otherwise. When it comes to you and your safety, I will always be selfish.”

  I stared at him for a long moment, not knowing what I wanted to say first, the weight of his disregard and duplicity weighing on my chest like an anvil, the force of it chaotically propelling me down an uncertain path.

  He claimed to have left me because he wanted to keep me safe, and I believed him. That was certainly part of it. But the other part—the part with which I was struggling—was his complete disregard for my abilities, talents, contributions. Never mind what I wanted or needed.

  If the tables had been turned, I wouldn’t have left him behind. Not because I loved him less, but because I respected him more.

  But it hadn’t always been this way.

  “What about Jack and Grace? Hmm? What about soccer?”

  The muscle at his jaw jumped, his teeth clenched as he scrutinized me. “Do you want to talk about that now?”

  “No. I want to resolve that now. Because when you leave again—because you always leave—I want you to know I’ll be taking Jack to soccer every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

  “We’re not discussing Jack and soccer, because what you really want to discuss is me leaving.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, that’s so. Because why else would you say, ‘because you always leave’?” Greg adopted a sotto voice as though to mimic me.

  I narrowed my eyes at him, dropping the spoon to the ice cream because it suddenly felt like a weapon in my hands. “I do not sound like that.”

  “You’re right, you don’t sound like that. But then, I don’t always leave, either.”

  “That’s bullshit. You always leave. You’re always leaving. And I don’t want you to leave anymore. As of right now, no more leaving.” I was being completely irrational. . . fuck it.

  Embrace the irrationality!

  “And how do you propose we make money, Fe? Do you have a magical money tree growing on the balcony? Perhaps a tiny leprechaun hiding in your purse?”

  Frustration growing, I decided to skip past all my little gripes to the sum of their parts. When taken all together, his actions left me at a loss, so I asked the big question. “Tell me the truth. Are you reall
y happy? With us? With kids and a wife? Or are you looking for a way out?”

  Greg flinched as though I’d struck him; his expression equal parts incredulous and irate when he responded, his voice raised to a dangerous pitch, “That’s like asking me, ‘Are you happy your heart beats?’”

  I glared at him for a long moment, seeing he believed his words, though I still doubted them. I doubted he wanted a partner.

  So I pushed, “Then why did you do it? Why did you accept the assignment? And don’t tell me it was for the money, so you could spend more time at home, because that’s not the whole reason. You knew for a fact that it was dangerous. Kidnapping of oil workers in Nigeria happens all the time. Why did you risk so much, why risk yourself when your family needs you?”

  He made a loud sound of disbelief. “My family needs me? Really?”

  “Of course!”

  “Not of course, Fiona!” He charged me, backing me up until my bottom connected with the counter, shouting, losing all premise of control. “When have you ever needed me?”

  “Greg—”

  “You don’t need me. When I’m at home, I might as well be . . I might as well be fucking furniture!” He gestured to the kitchen table with a flick of his wrist.

  “Are you serious?”

  “As a brain tumor,” he said through gritted teeth, and his eyes flashed with malice.

  My mouth dropped open and a sound of strangled shock forced itself from my throat.

  I squeaked my outrage for several seconds before he interrupted me with his tirade. “By the way, if you had another tumor, would you have told me? Or would I find out about it from the shirtless boy wonder next door?”

  “You’re still mad I didn’t tell you about the headaches?”

  “No. Of course not. I’m not allowed to be angry with you about anything. I’m not even fucking needed here!”

  “You are.”

  “Then tell me to stay. Tell me you need me. Lie to me.” He was all sarcasm and bitterness.