Jake’s jaw drops. “Um . . . I was . . . she . . .” How to explain that he never said anything about leaving his lover. “Colleen wasn’t the type,” he says finally. “My guess is that she stumbled upon a crime of some sort. She lived in an old factory, illegally converted to condos. They don’t run background checks in places like that. Maybe one of her neighbors was dealing drugs or was high. She pulled her badge, and he went ballistic.” His eyes start to water. “Whatever happened to her, she didn’t deserve it.” The prosecutor’s voice crumbles. He snorts, sucking up mucus into his septum. “She was a good person.”
Rage at his defense of the woman who lured him away from his pregnant wife runs through me like an electric current. Robotically, I separate Vicky from my breast and place her back in the bassinet. She starts fussing at being separated from me. I crouch down and pull out a baby mobile from the stroller basket, clipping it to her sunshade. Animals, outfitted in circus gear, dangle above her head. I flick a switch on a side of the plastic and fabric contraption.
“Pop! Goes the Weasel” plays through a hidden speaker. In addition to piano, this version has a string interlude followed by little kids singing nonsense lyrics. The sounds entertain our child. She stares at the animals, content with the music and visual stimulation.
I turn to face Jake’s hunched form. His head is lowered like a chastised child. Seeing him this way makes me want to punch a wall. He doesn’t get to be the sad and sympathetic one right now, not after what he drove me to do. I can’t look at him. I can’t stay with him.
All around the mulberry bush . . .
“I need you to go to a hotel.”
The monkey chased the weasel . . .
“Baby.” Jake starts to rise from the couch.
The monkey thought ’twas all in good sport.
“Vicky and I will leave for a bit, give you time to get your things.”
Pop! goes the weasel.
“Where are you going? To your mother’s?”
I don’t want to see my mom. She will tell me to forgive my husband because I also had an affair. I won’t be able to explain that I only betrayed Jake after discovering him with another woman without risking her telling police. What I need to do is take a walk with my baby and dispose of the plastic thongs cutting into my feet.
“It doesn’t matter where I go. You lost your right to that information when you started lying to me. We will be back in a few hours. I expect you not to be here.”
“But—”
“You don’t get to negotiate right now. This is what needs to happen.”
The kids on the recording laugh and giggle while the piano plays. Vicky starts to coo. She loves this part. I push the stroller toward the exit and open the hall closet. My sneakers sit at the bottom beside Jake’s loafers. I pull off the flip-flops and shove them into the stroller basket. The tops of my feet are chafed and blistered from the rough straps. Slipping on sneakers is painful.
As I’m tying my laces, I hear Jake rise from the couch. I shut the closet door and see my husband, his shoulders rounded like a man headed for the stocks. The kids’ recorded squeals morph back into music.
I’ve no time to plead and pine . . .
I bristle as he draws near but then move aside for him to kiss Vicky.
I’ve no time to wheedle . . .
He casts me a longing look as I take the stroller handle.
Kiss me quick and then I’m gone.
I push the carriage out the door. The lock clicks behind me.
Pop! goes the weasel.
Part III
Elizabeth, Elspeth, Betsy, and Bess,
They all went together to seek a bird’s nest.
They found a bird’s nest with five eggs in,
They all took one and left four in.
—English Nursery Rhyme
LIZA
I burst through my apartment door, not caring if I surprise the officers tearing apart my house. Migraine medication is no longer an option. The pain is so intense that I could go raving mad. My mind is trying to escape the pressure by separating me from my physical being. I feel as though I am having an out-of-body experience. I’m watching myself fumble with the keys and wince beneath the blaring hallway lights. This is happening to somebody else.
The foyer is empty. I rush through to the bathroom, yank open my pill drawer, and find my emergency sumatriptan syringe. This will stop it: the blinding, heart-wrenching, screaming pain.
I barely have the strength to shake the pen from the box and insert the cartridge. I yank my pants to my knees and jam the needle against my exposed thigh. There’s a pinch and the promise of relief. I remove the pen and then fall onto the closed toilet seat. I concentrate on my breathing. Nothing else. In. Out. In . . . Out . . . When I’m no longer nearly hyperventilating, I turn on the faucet, cup my hands beneath the stream, and drink fistful after fistful. Finally, I strip down and stumble into my bedroom.
It’s in shambles. The bedding has been pulled to the floor. Clothing, mostly David’s, but some of my things too, has been tossed onto the mattress. Drawers are open. I can’t handle this sight right now.
With my eyes half closed, I feel my way to the bare Tempur-Pedic. I fall on top of it and curl into fetal position. One by one, my systems shut down like an overheating computer force quitting processes. I can’t walk. I can’t move. I need sleep.
*
I wake to a yellow orb outside the window. Somehow, I’ve slept ten hours. Maybe more. I roll over and look to the digital clock on the nightstand: 7:00 AM. Slowly, I pull myself upright. Where is David? Did he come home last night?
I roll my legs off the mattress and survey the damage. Clothes are scattered on the floor. The closet doors are half open. From the bed, I can see that the lockbox has been taken from the top shelf. The removal of something I own from my house is as violating as someone pulling down my underwear in public and slapping my bare behind. What have I done to deserve this? A ransacked apartment. Broken uterus. Gay husband.
I look at my hand. My diamond engagement ring shines beside my wedding band. David proposed on my favorite beach. He married me. He suggested that I start fertility hormones. Why would he have a child with me if he was homosexual?
Because he felt bad for you. The answer comes in Beth’s voice. For once, she’s not being hypersexual, overly emotional, or cursing like a drunken soccer fan. Her tone is almost sad, as though I’ve learned a secret that she already knew. David understood that I wanted a baby more than anything in this world. At first, he’d hemmed and hawed about getting me pregnant because he’d known that he was attracted to men and, deep down, must have realized our relationship wouldn’t last. But he also knew that to leave me, at my age, with my history of fertility issues, would guarantee my childless future. So he stuck it out—even after starting an affair with the man he really loved—in hopes of giving us a parting gift. But then, none of the standard fertility treatments worked, and David realized that having a child with me could take years, if it happened at all. He couldn’t ask Nick to wait forever.
The suicide case would have brought Nick and David together romantically for the first time. Probably, it pushed both men to face their feelings, prompting long conversations about their childhoods in Mississippi and Texas, being bullied and belittled for what they felt. They would have opened up to one another. Admitted their mutual attraction. Fallen in love.
A tear tumbles down my face, a mosquito bite at dusk. Many more are to come. Trevor saw David and Nick kissing not because he needs glasses and stumbled upon two similar looking men, but because kissing was what my husband had been doing with his male law partner before my big book launch. David intended to leave me for Nick. His choice explains the year of detachment and dismissiveness, which I mistakenly attributed to his frustration with my fertility issues. He was pushing me away, hoping that I’d end things myself and spare him the apologies.
I sit on David’s side of the stripped bed, too weak to rise. Why would David kill Nick, though? He wouldn’t have murdered the man that he loved simply to prevent me from finding out about their affair. He was willing to leave me. I would have learned of his relationship with Nick eventually.
The realization sneaks up on me, a robber with a knife to my throat. All of a sudden I can’t move. Can’t swallow. Can’t breathe.