by Nina Laurin
“Special? Should I make reservations?”
“No need. Let’s have dinner at home. But afterward, I have a surprise for you.”
“Okay. Any special requests? Should I wear something, or—”
“Whatever you want. You always look great in whatever you pick. You have an innate sense of style, have I told you that?”
Yes. He has. I remember everything he ever told me. But I don’t say so; I just nod and laugh.
Tonight, he finishes work at six. This leaves me just enough time to do everything I have planned.
I have a busy day ahead of me.
* * *
The first thing I do is call Derek Hollis. I get his voicemail and leave a message, doing my best to sound casual and vague enough to intrigue him. Sure enough, fifteen minutes later he calls back, and we agree to meet.
There’s nothing new in my email this morning. Still, my faith in my novel is somewhat renewed, and I email a couple of literary agents on my list.
Ideal love is possible. Perfect happiness is not naïve. And I’ll show them—Colleen, my sister, Mia, the world. I’ll show them all.
After much deliberation, I decide to dress businesslike for my meeting with Derek. After all, that’s exactly what this meeting is about: business. I don’t want him to think it’s about anything else. So I put on the pencil skirt and blouse I bought when I thought I was going to be looking for a job. I’ve lost a little weight since then but I still look my best, the fitted skirt highlighting the slender curve of my hips, the cream silk blouse complementing my skin.
Sadly, as soon as I open the door of my car, I’m assaulted by the stench of something rotten and remember the groceries I forgot in the trunk. Trying not to breathe, I extract them, tie the plastic bag, and throw it in the trash can. Then I saturate the inside of the car with air freshener spray that instead reeks of synthetic lemons. It’s not much of an improvement.
Anyway, none of it is important now.
Nothing can stop me.
I arrive at the same café where we met the first time, early and nervous. Since I’m already jittery, I get a chamomile tea to calm my nerves while I wait and check my phone every two seconds.
Where is he? We said we’d meet at noon. It’s 12:02. My foot does a nervous dance, bouncing in its low-heeled pump. Maybe I should text him; 12:03 now.
Ding.
I jump at the message alert on my phone. God, don’t tell me he’s canceling. What am I going to do? I can only keep stalling for so long before the doctor gets suspicious and starts asking questions. I need his help.
I glance at the phone screen and frown. It’s not a text, it’s an email, and it’s not from Derek. It’s from a vaguely familiar address.
I tap on it to open it. My gaze strays along the rows of words, snatching out one or another out of order, unable to make sense of them.
Bafflingly unprofessional…disgraceful. Small industry…word of mouth…total lack of self-control…seek help.
Seek help?
What?
I feel myself sinking into unreality again, like I did back at the rented cabin. Like I did too many times recently. The world around me recedes into the distance, becoming distorted. A fog fills my head. The tiny screen of my phone blurs, and I have to squint to make it come back into focus. I zero in on the beginning of this missive, whatever it is. Dear Claire…
“Hey! Claire!”
My head snaps up, and I see Derek, looming over me. I didn’t see him come in. Or hear him call my name. Which, judging by his mildly impatient tone, he did at least a couple of times.
I don’t have time to wipe the look of confused devastation off my face, and he mirrors it.
“Is something wrong?”
Considering our last conversation, it wouldn’t be a far reach to assume that. I make myself smile.
“Oh, no. Not at all. Just got a…weird email. Doesn’t matter.” Remembering my manners, I turn off the phone and turn it over, screen-down. I get up and give him the customary loose hug and peck on the cheek. But he’s keeping his distance, I notice. Like I have a cold he’s afraid to catch.
I need to distance myself from this slipup before I can broach the subject. “Did you want to get a coffee or something?”
He shakes his head. “I’m good. I’m actually kind of in a hurry…” His glance strays, fleeing mine in shame, and I understand that he’s not in any hurry at all. This is bad, Claire, very bad. You fucked up. The smart thing would be to abandon mission, try on another day. Or better yet, get someone else.
But who?
“Oh, please, have something. It’s my treat.”
“I really shouldn’t—”
But I’m already getting up, fumbling for my wallet. He’s clearly uncomfortable but he asks for a coffee, black. I take my time getting it and bringing it back. Noticing that he doesn’t touch the cup I’ve set down in front of him, I fidget in my seat.
“You look good today,” he points out.
Yeah, last time we spoke, I was a complete mess. Thinking about it momentarily fills me with shame. But I accept the compliment as you’re supposed to, with grace.
“Things have been going better,” I say offhandedly, and take a sip of my chamomile, remembering how much I hate chamomile and tisane in general. It’s as bad as last time. “With Byron. I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate your help last time. And that you came down to meet me today too.”
“Always happy to help,” he says. If not for his orientation, I’d assume he’s flirting with me. And by this point, men usually become compliant. But I must tread carefully. “I’m glad to hear things are improving. So anyway, how is Byron?”
Just as I open my mouth to tell him Byron is great, as great as can be, something occurs to me. “What do you mean, how is Byron? Don’t you guys see each other, like, every day?” I barely notice that I let a like slip into the sentence, a verbal tic I eradicated years ago. Byron hates girls who say like every two words.
He shrugs. “It’s a big campus. And besides, he’s been out a lot—home sick, he says. Bad back? Something like that?”
I’m caught unawares, staring back at him with round eyes like a cat. “Yeah,” I say, smiling. A touch too late. “He has back problems.”
Absent from work a lot? He’s been doing overtime. Or so he told me. I think of the surprise he was telling me about this morning and try to tell myself that maybe it has something to do with that.
Yeah, right, says a sarcastic little voice in the back of my mind. I momentarily screw my eyes shut. I won’t think of it right now. I must focus.
I ask Derek how he’s doing, how his boyfriend’s art exhibit went—I think it was an art exhibit he went on and on about at that party when last I met him. I could be completely off the mark and would never know it because I can barely bring myself to listen to the answers. Maybe his boyfriend is a writer like me, or maybe he makes avant-garde sculptures with animal bones and computer parts. Who knows? Who cares?
Then, when Derek’s body language relaxes again, once he leans closer like he trusts me, I lean in too and tell him I need a big favor.
He listens to me, perfectly still. A couple of seconds tick by. Maybe more. The coffee shop buzzes like a beehive, the noise setting my teeth on edge.
“You’re completely out of your mind,” Derek finally says. I spring back instinctively. The look on his face isn’t neutral anymore. It’s a look of shock. I completely missed the moment it made the transition. “You’re crazy.”
“Listen,” I implore. But he pulls away. It’s too late—I know it. I fucked up. Again. “It’s just— It’s the only thing that will mend our relationship. Don’t you see? Byron and I will never end up like his marriage to Colleen. The reason it fell apart is because she couldn’t give him a baby, right? Isn’t that what you said?”
“I never said any such thing.” He gives a vehement shake of his head. “And right now, to be honest, I’m starting to regret I told you anything
at all.”
“So I have to give him one. A child. He’ll come around once I give him the news. I just know it. The thing with Colleen left him cynical and bitter and disillusioned but I can fix it! I can fix everything.”
I stop when Derek shakes his head with a look of disbelief, and jump right back in, breathless. “But there’s one problem. It has to be the real thing. I don’t want him to know I did in vitro. I want it to be a miracle baby, made with love, not in a tube. It’s the only thing that can make a difference at this point. And he’ll never find out you helped!”
“Helped? You think that’s helping? You just asked me to go to a fertility clinic and pretend to be your husband.”
“So?”
“Should I also jerk off into a cup while I’m at it? Byron won’t find out, after all.”
“No!” I laugh nervously because the suggestion is so ludicrous. He has no idea or else how could he even have thought it for a second? Me, having another man’s baby. “I’ll get him to do it. I thought of a way—”
“Do you hear yourself, Claire? This is completely insane. You are insane. You should see somebody.”
He gets up, nearly tipping over the chair.
“Derek,” I plead. I must stop him—I must at least stop him from telling Byron. “Wait. I can pay—”
“You have problems, Claire,” he spits. “I feel very sorry for you.” His face twists with disgust. No one ever looked at me like that. Not for a really long time. Claire doesn’t provoke disgust or pity; Claire is admired and envied and wanted.
Rage makes my throat clench.
“Then fuck you,” I snarl. “Fuck you!”
He turns to go, and when I pick up my cup and throw it at him, it misses his head by inches. The cup crashes to the floor, breaking into a hundred pieces. Someone shrieks. Everyone turns around to look. Tears fill my eyes.
Derek doesn’t turn around. He walks out without another glance at me.
I wait until the door closes behind him, flee to the bathroom, and then make my escape through the back door. Once I’m behind the coffee shop, in the stinky alley next to trash bags and recycling bins, I let myself sob.
* * *
Fine. Whatever.
I’ll pay off Hassan. Ten thousand dollars in cash—that has to be good money even to a doctor. It’s only a matter of finishing what I started.
I always finish what I start.
The house is empty and drenched with sunlight, in sharp contrast to my mood. As if even the weather is laughing at me. Stupid girl. What did you think you were getting? A little suburban dream? True love eternal?
I slam the front door behind me and catch my breath. The living room reels before my eyes, lilac walls, Colleen’s murky painting above the couch—everything as I left it, familiar. Yet different. Like someone came in while I was gone and moved the furniture, the knickknacks, the photos and paintings, the TV, just a couple of inches in the wrong direction. Everything the same but also wrong. Unwelcoming. A house but not a home.
I slide to the floor and bury my face in my knees. In my back pocket, my phone buzzes.
I take it out and look at the screen. I can’t focus at first but then my husband’s name swims out of the blurriness. Hi honey. Don’t forget about the surprise tonight!
A sharp exhale leaves my lungs, like a sob. I thumb the screen, unlocking the phone, only to find myself staring at the mystery email from earlier.
Bafflingly unprofessional behavior. The phrase leaps out, searing my eyes. I read the message over and over, trying to put the words together.
I jump to my feet so fast I get vertigo. The moment everything steadies again, I race upstairs and get my laptop. Then I plop down into a kitchen chair, flip it open, and click on my email.
The same message splays out across the screen. I reread it again, just to be sure. Now I recognize the sender’s name and address.
I have to shut my eyes for a minute. Gold sparks dance under my eyelids, and I dare hope that, when I open them again, everything will be different. The message will be gone, and the incident earlier will be just a bad dream, and everything will be fine again, as it should be.
But when I look at the screen again, it’s all still there. The house has sunk into silence, punctuated only by the muffled chirping of birds outside the window and the distant ticking of the clock in the living room. The air here, in the kitchen, is hot and stifling. I’m starting to sweat.
I click on the Sent folder. There they are, in a neat row: messages without a subject line, to each and every agent I’d emailed about my book. I open the first one, and my gaze races up and down the lines of obscenities. Uncomprehending. I didn’t write this.
I’m reasonably sure I didn’t.
This can’t be happening, I think, confused. A stupid thought. Of course it’s happening—it’s right in front of me.
Letting go of the breath I was holding, I close the laptop lid. Where to now? I circle the first floor, as though the living room couch and bay window and decorative vases might hold answers. Then I go to the garage.
The place is dusty and neglected, Byron not being the most hands-on type. There’s an old bicycle there and plastic boxes filled with old junk—mostly my stuff from my old apartment, from before Byron. If there ever was such a time before Byron. It feels like there never was a time I didn’t know him. A time when he wasn’t constantly on my mind, even when I was doing something else. Cooking, writing, getting my hair done, cleaning the house, shopping for winter boots—and him, always him, on my mind every second of every day. He wasn’t always the focus of my thoughts but he never left them, always there in the background. He never even knew it. Was I on his mind the same way? I don’t even need to think about it.
Was Colleen?
Good God, I’m thinking of my husband like he’s some apocalyptic event. A world war or tsunami.
I spin around. There are a few tools hanging on the wall, and I grab the biggest hammer I see. It’s ice-cold in my hand and heavy as lead. Good.
I take it back into the house. To the door of the basement. I try the handle first, and only once I’ve made sure it was locked, I swing the hammer and smash it into the lock. The impact travels through my bones and makes my teeth clack but I clench my jaw and ignore it. I swing the hammer again, and again, and again.
The door splinters, and the lock comes loose. I pry it out with my hands. A splinter sinks into the pad of my thumb. I pull it out with my teeth, barely aware of the pain. I faintly realize I’m leaving behind a small smear of blood as I reach along the wall to flip the light switch.
It smells like dust in here, dust and old things. I make my way down the stairs. The lone light bulb swings on its cord, illuminating stacks of boxes. Colleen’s easel stands in the corner, covered with a piece of plastic. It casts an enormous shadow on the wall behind it, crouching there like a monster.
Why couldn’t you just forget her? Why couldn’t you leave her in the past?
I pull the plastic off the easel and then topple the easel itself onto the boxes next to it. The boxes topple in turn, and their contents spill all over the floor. The cloud of dust that rises makes my eyes and throat itch. But there it is, rolled up, just like the last time I saw it, the painting from the bedroom. I unroll only the edge to make sure. I don’t want to see it right now, don’t want to lay my eyes on that obscenely embracing couple. The thought alone makes me feel dirty.
I tuck it under my armpit, and that’s when my gaze falls on the array of small objects scattered at my feet. I crouch, then kneel right on the dirty floor and pick through the objects, one after another. Just miscellanea: half-empty, calcified tubes of paint, sponges, brushes, a bottle of nail polish, a pen. I follow the trail to the box lying on its side and turn it upright. There are more things in it, at the bottom. I plunge my hand in, and my fingertips find something soft.
I pull out a small plush toy, a pink teddy bear. It has that eerie aura of a thing never used. It’s dusty and smells faintly of
damp but the fur is still new and glossy, the colors unfaded. There’s even a little tag still attached to its paw.
What?
I grab the box and upend it, unable to hold in a little shriek when I see the things that tumble onto my lap. Clothes. Tiny clothes, pink and white and lilac. I hold up a tiny sweater with the tag still on—just like the teddy bear.
It’s impossible. Impossible.
I unfold it. On the front, a pattern of sewn-on flowers.
This can’t be. It’s not possible. She—
I pick through the rest of it in a panic: baby clothes, baby shoes, a rattle, a doll.
There can’t be any doubt.
I pick up the sweater again, bring it close to my face, and breathe in its smell of dust and synthetic fibers.
It can’t— I don’t believe it. I don’t even notice when I start to cry until I break out in full-on sobs, my body shaking.
* * *
The ringing of my phone pulls me mercilessly back to reality. I sit up, disoriented. What is this dark, dusty, ugly place?
Then I see the sweater and the toys, sitting in a pile next to me. I swing at them blindly and send the teddy bear flying across the room.
The phone keeps trilling stubbornly. I paw around for it and look at the screen: an unfamiliar number.
“What?” I snarl into the speaker, shocked at the hoarseness of my voice. “What do you want?”
There’s no pause or hesitation on the other end. The voice is male, young sounding, devoid of emotion but polite. “Ms. Connie Wilson?”
I shut my eyes, trying to control my dizziness. Something is very wrong here, but what? It’s like one of those puzzle pictures, and I can’t make any sense of it. “Yes,” I say, snapping back to my well-mannered self on autopilot. Thank God.
“This is the Mansfield Police Department, ma’am. I was given your contact information by Dr. Hassan at the Ova Clinic.”
“Yes,” I repeat dumbly. “It’s me.”
“I just have some routine questions. As you might know, the receptionist at the clinic, Ms. Burke, was the victim of a serious cybercrime—”
