by Portia Moore
“We will tell Chris and Jenna, but we’re going to tell them when it’s the right time. We hope that you will respect our decision to do it at our discretion,” he continues, looking me straight in the eye.
“William!” his wife shrieks frantically. “Did you hear what she said?” Her voice cracks as tears well in her eyes. “She says they have a child, William.”
His frown softens, and he arches an eyebrow. They both turn to me. I wipe away my own tears. I’m feeling another wave of anger and confusion welling up inside of me.
“You have a baby?” he asks quietly.
I don’t say anything, frowning at both of them. I grab my purse, take out my phone to show them a picture of Caylen, and hand it to Mrs. Scott. I can’t help but notice the shocked expression on her face. I turn to her husband, and his expression matches Mrs. Scott’s. From the looks of them, I’d say this is the first time they’ve heard anything about Caylen.
“D-Dexter never told us you were pregnant. We never knew anything about this,” he says, his tone cold but his expression softening.
“According to you, her father’s not this Chris person. Her father is the monster that you want to get rid of!” I say harshly.
“What’s her name?” Mrs. Scott says, so softly I have to strain to make it out. A smile spreads across her face, and her eyes water as she looks into the picture. “She looks just like him.” Her voice breaks, and she covers her mouth.
“You have a daughter with Chris?” he says sullenly.
It’s funny that now I have a baby with Chris, when a minute ago I was married to Cal.
“Look at her, William. She’s beautiful,” she says earnestly and tries to show the picture to her husband.
He glances at it for a moment then scowls again angrily. “It’s bad enough he took it upon himself to marry this woman, but to have a child? I didn’t think even he’d sink that low.” He walks back over to the window and hits the window frame.
“William, calm down.”
“How could he do this? Why wouldn’t Dexter tell us about this?”
“William, we have a grandchild!” she says, trying to focus on the one positive thing in the room.
“That’s Cal’s daughter! Not Chris’s. There’s a difference!” he yells at her.
Her smile fades, and she scowls at him, takes the picture, and puts it close to his face. “Whose eyes are these? Whose smile is this? It’s Chris’s. I see my grandchild, William!”
“I can’t believe this!” he roars.
“Someone should have told me!” I screech, tired of being ignored. “Secrets aren’t okay when you’re the one on the other end, are they?”
They look down, guilt on their faces.
“No one bothered to tell me that the man I fell in love with, the man I married and have a child with, has a personality disorder? I guess once he came back home, you all were a happy family again, never mind the family he left back in Chicago. It would be too much of an inconvenience to inform me of what was going on! Caylen and I were too much of a liability to your perfect little life!” I shout, feeling my entire body shaking.
“We had no idea that you were having a child. Dexter never told us you were pregnant!” Mrs. Scott tries to explain.
“And if I wasn’t? You were just going to let me sulk in the dark, having no clue about him. What’s in the past is just forgotten, huh? You may not think of Cal as a real person, but he’s real to me, and at the very least I’m real! I’m flesh and bones, and I have feelings. I fell in love with him, a man, not a figment of my imagination or this monster that you claim him to be. When he left me, it hurt more than anything. I cried every night. Every part of me ached. You love your son! I love my husband! Each moment you were happy with him, I was alone, wondering where my husband was! I had no idea if he was hurt or if he was even alive, but you had the comfort of knowing your son was safe each time he disappeared!” I say, feeling the tears well up from years of being held back. “So now that you know that I have a child with Cal, or Chris, or whatever he wants to call himself, what now? Am I just supposed to disappear and take care of her on my own? Leave this Chris person to live his perfect life with his fiancée?”
Mr. Scott just looks as if he sees through me.
“W-we—of course not. We’re going to tell him. He has a beautiful little girl,” she says, looking at the picture.
Mr. Scott frowns at her and me. “I’m going to call Dexter about this,” he growls and leaves the room.
“I am so sorry, Lauren,” Mrs. Scott says, tears continuing to fall from her eyes. “We had no idea. I know we were wrong for not telling you. But if we knew you had a child, we would have told Chris. I am so sorry.” Her voice gives in, and she then takes time to compose herself.
I look at her and almost want to hug her. She seems genuinely sorry, and her presence is so warm. In a different situation, she would have been a wonderful mother-in-law. I put my purse back on my shoulder and take a deep breath. It’s been more than a long day. I walk over to her and hold my hand out for my phone.
“Do you… do you mind—could you send me one of these?” she asks, reluctantly handing me back my phone.
I reach into my purse and pull out the one wallet-size picture I have, which is of both Caylen and me, and write my number on the back of it. “Her name is Caylen. This is my number.” I turn and head toward the door.
She follows me to see me out. “Where… where are you staying?” Mrs. Scott asks with a sniff, trying to recover from what just happened as much as I am.
“I don’t know yet. It’ll be somewhere close,” I tell her, opening the door.
She looks behind her and looks as if she wants to say something but doesn’t. “Ritter Inn is a really nice place—not too far away, affordable. Good people work there.” She gives me a forced smile.
“I’m still not sure if I believe all of what you’ve told me. I mean, no one has been exactly honest with me up until this point.” She opens her mouth to say something, but I stop her. “I know you did what you did to protect your son because you love him. Just as you understand that I love my daughter, and she’s not going to grow up without a father. If it were just me, I’d walk away from this. After all, Cal kept me in the dark just as much as everyone else.” I stop, not wanting to shed any more tears. “But she deserves a father, whether it’s Cal, or Chris, or if he decides to call himself Bob. One of them had a part in making her.”
I try to soften my tone. “Tell your husband I am not going to disappear. You have three days to tell him whatever you haven’t, because when I see him, I’m telling him everything. But I think he’d prefer to hear it from you rather than me. I think we’ll have enough to talk about without me having to tell him everything you won’t.”
She nods, eyes wide. I exit the house and hurry down the front steps. When I reach my car, I look back and see that she’s still watching me. I get in and quickly pull off. So much of what they said could be true… but is all of it honest? I’ll have to judge for myself. The meaning of honesty seems blurry.
April 1st, 2011
It’s been three days since Cal got back from his last trip. Working. It’s funny—well, not really. His out-of-town trips have become more frequent, and not only that, but impromptu. Apparently, they can happen in the middle of the night, with little notice, as I’ve come to learn. I wake in the morning to not find my husband next to me. It isn’t too bad. I try to think of it as exciting, not knowing if he’ll be home or not, kind of like a game. There’s nothing strange or disrespectful about it at all—according to Cal.
I think back three months to our first fight about his lack of communication. How it was out of character compared to the trips he took before we were married. Well, as it turns out, communicating with me like a normal person… that was actually out of character for him.
The only thing he’s retained from that little verbal spat is to send text messages. Oh, how lucky I am to get those. Usually two words; if I’m lucky, three. “Made it.”
“Be home soon.” “Don’t be mad.” He probably has them auto-typed.
I’ve decided after this last business trip that I’m done pleading with him to act like a decent human being, to respect me and not cut me off. Now I’m just tired. I’m tired of trying to compromise. I’m done asking. I’m coming close to being done with him and this marriage.
He can say all he wants that it’s his job or whatever the hell he thinks I’m stupid enough to believe, but I’m sick of it. He thinks this is fun for me. Being here, waiting around until he decides to show up is not fun. Whenever I see that overnight bag appear, I feel myself slipping into a rage. There is something more than work going on. There has to be.
We haven’t been on speaking terms for the past two days. He came home from this last “business” trip after being gone six days, leaving with less than an hour’s notice on the very night he promised to go with me to Saginaw to visit Raven. I couldn’t bring myself to say a word to him since he’s been home. He doesn’t want to talk about what I want to talk about… things like who the hell he’s with when he’s gone. I know he probably has a mistress somewhere, maybe one in every freaking state. He laughed when I told him that. It was apparently hilarious, based on his reaction. When I told him his job title should be “Dexter’s Bitch,” he didn’t find that as funny. And now he’s not talking to me either.
The screwed up part about all of this though is that even with me being so mad at him, so furious I just want to hit him, I miss him. I miss him so much that it makes my stomach turn. I miss him, despite us sleeping in the same bed. He hasn’t tried to touch me since the first night I pushed him away and told him to keep his hands off me. Still, my body craves his touch. I want to lie on his chest and feel his fingers tracing his name on my back. I’m furious that he makes me feel like this, that he’s doing this to us. He thinks I’m overreacting, but I think he is underreacting to the effect this is having on our relationship.
Today, I’ve been in the gym for the past two hours, beating the track with my sneakers instead of destroying things in my house. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I’m becoming someone I don’t want to be—a mean, vindictive shrew.
I take deep breaths as I walk into our bedroom and see him shuffling through his drawer, his luggage case near his feet. My stomach tightens, and I feel my pulse beating in my head. He’s leaving, and he just got back three days ago.
“I’m going to Seattle tomorrow. In case you give a fuck,” he says sardonically. He has to feel my gaze burning into his back.
I turn down the music and snatch the buds out of my ears. “What?” I say angrily, even though we both know I heard him plain and clear.
“You heard what I said,” he says shortly.
I laugh angrily. “Of course you are. Thanks for the heads-up on the location, but FYI, I’m starting to not give a fuck.” I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth, but they came out so effortlessly.
He stops shuffling through his drawer, swiftly turning around, and anger radiates from his expression. His eyes climb my body, and for a moment, the look he gives me is familiar, something I haven’t seen in a few days from him—lust. But I’m too angry to care and it disappears, replaced with his new pissed-to-shit demeanor. I sit on the bed with force and remove my gym shoes. I’m hot, irritated, and sick of his shit.
“You are, huh?” He laughs in disbelief.
I roll my eyes at him and snatch off my other shoe.
“Well, it’s the last time I’ll tell you where I’m going, since you don’t give a fuck,” he says angrily.
I open my mouth to respond, but I feel a burning in my throat, and I know that if I say something, my voice is going to break and I’ll start crying. I won’t give him the satisfaction. So instead, I take a deep breath, stand up, look him directly in the eye, and show him my middle finger. I walk toward the bathroom, holding the gesture the entire time until I’m inside, and I slam the door as hard as I can.
Once I’m inside, my angry façade quickly starts to break down. I rush to the shower and turn on the water so he can’t hear me cry. I strip out of my sweaty shorts and sports bra and make my way into the water, where I let go completely. I’m angry. I’m so angry that I don’t feel angry. I’m devastated. It hasn’t even been three months since he started going back to work, and my marriage is on the brink of falling apart.
I hate the way we’ve been acting toward one another. That little spiel was the first actual conversation we’ve had without screaming at each other. Tomorrow he’ll be gone again. I’m terrified the cycle will just repeat itself, and in a year, I’ll be signing divorce papers.
I rest my arms on the wall, cradling my head as the water pours over me and I continue to cry. The hot water isn’t washing away the sorrow I feel or numbing the pain my spirit’s in. Suddenly, cool air filters into the shower. I turn around, and my face automatically sets into a scowl as I see him standing there.
“We need to talk,” he says sternly.
I hope the droplets of water camouflage my tears. I turn back around, barely glancing at him. “Go fuck yourself, Cal.”
I laugh angrily, barely glancing at him. He doesn’t want to talk about anything I want to talk to him about, and he’s leaving anyway, so any conversation is useless.
“Oh, but I’m sure you have plenty of women doing that for you,” I add with a bitter chuckle.
A second later he’s in the shower, fully clothed.
“What are you doing?” I ask in disbelief.
He takes off his shirt and undoes his pants, stripping right in the shower. He’s lost it. He throws out his wet clothes and closes the shower door. I shake my head in disbelief and shock. I try to move past him as he grabs me. I move to snatch my arm away, but he doesn’t let me go.
“Let go,” I yell, pulling away from him.
“Talk to me!” he demands angrily.
Oh, he’s angry. No, I’m angry! I’m tired of talking to him. It hasn’t helped! I’m wasting my breath. I try to snatch my arm away from him again, but he doesn’t let me go.
“No!” I yell, trying to push him out of my path.
He moves in front of me each way I try to go.
“I don’t want to talk to you!” I say angrily, shoving him away from me, but he forces me toward him. I resort to hitting him hard on the chest, and he grabs me.
“Then just fucking listen!” he demands, pinning me against the shower wall, my arms near my head. “I’m not fucking anybody else, okay? If I wanted other women, I wouldn’t be with you. I know it looks bad! But I swear to God I’m not cheating on you. If you’re mad, be mad about me being gone, but I can’t deal with you hating me for this imaginary shit going on in your head.”
I look up at him. He’s breathing hard, his brow furrowed. I want to slap him and kiss him all at once. He’s looking directly in my eyes, staring me down and trying to read me, and I look away from him.
“You’re all I want.” His tone is low as he rests his head on mine. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”
He loosens his grip on my wrists, but still he holds them. He kisses me. I turn away slightly, still trying to process this. He grabs my chin, holding my face toward him, and kisses me more forcefully. When I break away, we both catch our breath.
“I need you,” he says. His voice is pleading, and he kisses me more urgently, until I start to kiss him back.
His hands move underneath my thighs, and he lifts me effortlessly. I feel him slide inside me. I gasp as he enters. My fingers dig into his back as my body adjusts around him. He goes deeper inside me, each movement reminding me of how much my body craves him, each thrust reminding me that he knows its every crevice. My body has given into him, but my heart hasn’t; it’s bruised and in hiding. While still inside me, he takes my hand and intertwines his fingers with mine.
“Without you, I’m nothing,” he whispers in my ear.
I try to believe the unsteadiness of his voice is due to his body recovering from what it�
��s done. But with just those four words, my heart shows itself and gives in to him. I’m still scared, so scared. The heaviness on my chest is gone, and I believe he’s not cheating on me, but I realize if he’s not, we have a problem—one much bigger than I ever thought. Because if Cal loves me as much as he makes believe he does, whatever is slowly peeling away at our relationship, we may not be able to fix.
March 9th, 2013
You’re the reason I fight to be here…
I open my eyes, trying to get away from the words that have been relentlessly playing in my head. I can’t escape from his echoing voice. I keep trying to make his face disappear, but every time I close my eyes, I see him.
The words seem to hold more meaning than I ever imagined, but now they’re worthless. Something made him stop fighting. Or even if he did, at this point, it’s pretty moot.
I sit up on my lumpy bed in the Ritter Inn’s lovely room—not really.
I let out a sigh as I hold my head. Sleeping has been practically useless. When it’s not his voice, it’s the Scotts’ words following me around. Scenes of Cal and me in the past haunt my thoughts every second, or even worse, my first meeting with “Chris.”
It’s been two days since I found out the so-called “truth,” whether or not I believe it. It is implausible, but makes so much sense, connecting so many dots that have been scattered about in my brain for years—all of Cal’s sudden disappearances, his void connection with family, with everyone except the Crestfields—but to believe that he isn’t real, that he’s a forged personality… I’ll never believe that. I can’t.
I try to forget the look on the Scotts’ faces; they carried a quiet honesty and a sincerity—even Mr. Scott. His bitterness was too genuine to be an act. Mrs. Scott’s tears were too real, her eyes so full of sorrow when she spoke. If this is all a scheme, they should both win an Oscar.
I look over at the side table where my phone is vibrating once again. It’s Hillary this time. She, Angela, and Raven have all called numerous times, but I haven’t been up to the task of talking to them. I can’t face being unable to answer questions that I don’t have answers for myself. This entire thing seems as if I’m in a nightmare, just waiting to be woken up, as if everything is playing backward in my head.
