From somewhere deep in the house, I hear Trish mumble. I walk through several more rooms, flipping off the light switches as I go, until I eventually find her in the dining room. Although she’s dressed in a strapless black dress as if to go out for the evening, a white fur wedding shawl covering her shoulders, she looks like she’s been sitting here for hours, frowning. Mascara and traces of glimmering blue eye shadow streak down her cheeks from tears that have not quite dried. Nothing in her sad countenance squares with the confident woman I imagine must’ve charged into Simpkins earlier in the day and demanded dirt on Laurel.
Two place settings of our blue-rimmed Noritake wedding china sit on the table. Silver serving pieces reflect the light of the candles that flicker romantically on the pair of enormous nineteenth-century gilt bronze candelabra we bought years ago at an Old Town Alexandria antique shop. Crystal wine glasses are filled with red wine. The elaborate details take me aback. Our linen napkins are folded into origami swans that face each other, beak to beak, nuzzling. Dinner lately for us hasn’t consisted of much beyond store-bought microwave entrees scarfed down together or individually at the rough-hewn table in our kitchen breakfast nook. A few years ago, Trish informed our cook her services were no longer needed, letting her go with an uncharacteristically lavish severance package. We had stopped inviting people over for dinner parties or cocktails because the questions our ever-fertile friends (all blessed with one or two or even three children) would ask about our own efforts to conceive would send Trish sobbing to the bedroom. By firing our cook, she was throwing in the towel on home entertaining.
“Honey. Dearest. Are you all right?”
“You told me you’d be home by seven o’clock. You promised.”
Trish’s insistence this morning that I come home at a decent hour comes back to me. I’d forgotten all about it. Not only am I unfaithful, but I’ve become a man who can no longer be troubled to keep track of his commitments. Trish has cooked this lavish meal for me, and now it’s cold and inedible because I’ve forgotten to come home. “I’m sorry, honey. I screwed up. Can you forgive me? Please?”
Curdled fat globules float over the asparagus spears. Only after some moments do I realize this had once been a hollandaise sauce. She made it for me, put herself out in its intricate preparation because she knew I loved it. A man with two women in his life is a fool. It’s hard enough to keep one woman happy, but it amazes me how Trish still wanted to keep me happy. I picture her as she must’ve been for the last few hours, running the sauce and the asparagus back and forth from the stove to keep them warm. The heat of the stove would have caused her to sweat, increasing her anxiety. I picture her beating the sauce, whipping it. Is that how you keep a good thing from going bad? I picture her doing everything she could, praying that it would keep until I came home, and I picture her despair when it finally separated.
Trish lifts the silver dome off a silver serving tray to reveal a garlic-and herb-crusted rack of lamb. Her hand trembles. The meat is cold, the pink juices gathered at the bottom of the tray congealed into a leathery-skinned Jell-O. Hours ago, it would have been perfect.
“You were supposed to be home at seven o’clock,” Trish says, letting go of the dome so that it crashes onto the table. She had set our dinner plates side by side as if she anticipated us leaning into each other, close and comfortable, the wine an aphrodisiac to rekindle playful touches and intimacies. We used to eat like this years ago, back when we talked of having a baby of our own. She’d make the meals herself, taking pride in the smiles she put on my face.
Pulling out the chair next to her, I sit exactly as she anticipated had I arrived earlier. “Darling, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure you wanted me to come home tonight. Everything looks delicious. But I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”
Trish’s eyes widen, becoming brilliant blue marbles. When we were first dating, I loved looking into her eyes, and now, seeing the candlelight in them, I’m reminded of the hours we spent holding hands and staring into each other’s faces. “Why would you think that?”
“Why? Because of Anne Elise. Because of Laurel. It’s a terrible situation I’ve dug myself into, and I thought you’d reject me. That’s why.” I rest my chin in my outstretched hands. “Trish. What am I supposed to do? I barely know Laurel. I barely know what I’ve stepped into. Tonight, I met her parents.”
“Let me guess: they’re drug users. Or criminals.”
Trish’s assessment is an exact match for what I’d been thinking. “How’d you know?”
“I know people. Anyone who ends up like Laurel must have started in a bad place. Can I tell you a secret?”
“Tell me anything you like.”
“I simply think Anne Elise is beautiful. I so much wanted to hate her too. I so much wanted to pick her up and see that she was nothing but a grubby little piece of junk.”
“She’s not junk, dear.”
“I know she’s not.” Trish brushes back a fresh tear, the glimmering traces of her eye shadow smudging onto the back of her hand. “That’s what’s so unsettling. From the moment you slipped her into my arms at the hospital, I could tell she was wonderful, perfect, an absolute angel. It was like I had a baby-sized hole in my heart she snuggled into perfectly. Don’t you see? She’s all I ever wanted: a baby of my own. She should have been the baby we were meant to have. You and me.”
“You’re right,” I say, brushing the side of her face with my fingertips. I felt the exact same way staring into Anne Elise’s eyes. Even when she spit up her regurgitated milk onto me. A baby who will spit up on you will never leave your side. That is what I think.
“James. We need to talk.”
“Why talk? Let’s enjoy this moment together. Let’s savor the calm before the storm.”
“There doesn’t have to be a storm. We could still have a child. We can try again. We can create a sister for Anne Elise. Or a brother.” Trish tells me again how electrifying it was to hold Anne Elise. “It was like she was mine. If it wasn’t for that mistress of yours, she would have been mine,” Trish says. “Get rid of her.”
“I could never get rid of Anne Elise.”
“Not Anne Elise. That’s not what I meant. I meant Laurel. Get rid of her for us.”
I wince, shocked. This is the second time Trish has asked me to get rid of Laurel. She’s tightening the screws on me. And this time, the way she says it all jittery and trembling, I’m convinced she expects me to kill Laurel. Her eyes are agitated and bloodshot. She grabs hold of my shoulders and digs her fingernails into my shoulder with an urgency I hadn’t suspected. Her nails are piercingly sharp and painful.
“Get rid of her for us. We can raise the baby ourselves. Don’t you see it? If you get rid of Laurel, we can have the baby to ourselves.”
“Honey . . . honey . . .” I say, not wanting to enrage her any further. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
Trish lets go of my shoulders. I glance at the hole she jabbed into the right shoulder of my suit jacket. I wouldn’t be surprised if, underneath my shirt, I’m bleeding. My shoulders are sore, aching. She pushes back hair that has fallen in her eyes. “Yes, I am! You owe me this. You owe me. Anne Elise was supposed to be our baby. We’ve been talking about having her ever since we met.”
The timbre of Trish’s voice is so unlike its normal crisp tone. She’s never suggested something so irrational, but I know where she’s coming from. I take her hand and warm it between my own hands. Her hair falls over her eyes. Something curdles in my throat, for while I’m responsible for her anger, I never wanted to bring her sorrow, and yet I’m fearful of what else she might do to me . . . or make me do for her.
“Are you going to do it? For me?”