Chapter FifteenPresent
I am in the living room, flipping through Vogue while Caleb cooks dinner. The baby is sleeping upstairs, and the television is on some grody news station, playing just loud enough so Caleb can hear it. I am thinking about changing the channel to put on America’s Next Top Model, when I hear her name. My head snaps up. Olivia Kaspen. Her picture is on the screen, as she stands surrounded by reporters. I grab for the remote, not to turn it up, but to change the channel before Caleb can see it.
“Don’t,” I hear from behind me. I squeeze my eyes shut. Shrugging, I increase the volume. The newscaster is female. I once read a statistic that said sixty percent of men tune out female newscasters. Unfortunately for me, Caleb is not one of those men. He edges closer to the TV, the knife still in his hand. His knuckles are white. My eyes trace up his arm and rest on his face. From his nose down, his features are marble. Everything above that is registering emotion on a nuclear level. His eyebrows are drawn and his eyes look like a loaded gun ready to go off at any moment. I transfer my gaze to the television, afraid that if I keep watching him, I’ll start crying.
“The trial for Dobson Scott Orchard will begin next week. His attorney, Olivia Kaspen, who up until this point has been mum about her client, recently made a statement, saying she took the case after the accused kidnapper and serial rapist contacted her directly, asking her to represent him. It is highly speculated that Olivia, who received her undergraduate degree from the same college as one of his victims, will be issuing a plea of “Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity.”
The show switches to a commercial. I flop back against the couch. The picture they had shown of Olivia was grainy. The only thing really visible was her hair, which was much longer than it had been through my trial. I slowly pivot my neck around until I can see Caleb’s face. He is standing motionless behind me, his eyes slightly narrowed and glued to the toilet paper commercial, like he’s suspicious of their three-ply guarantee.
“Caleb?” I say. My voice catches, and I clear my throat. Tears sting at my eyes, and I have to use all of my willpower to keep them from spilling onto my cheeks. Caleb is looking at me, but he is not seeing me. I want to throw up. How fragile is my marriage, if all he has to do is look at her and I cease to exist? I turn off the television and abruptly stand up, sending the contents of my lap crashing to the floor. I grab for my purse, feeling for where I stashed my cigarettes the night I went to Mother Gothel with Sam. I pull them out, not caring if he sees … wanting him to see.
“Are you serious?”
His voice is calm, but I can see the unbridled anger in his eyes.
“You don’t own me,” I say casually, but my hand is shaking as I lift my lighter. It is such a lie. Caleb has owned every one of my thoughts and actions for the last five years. Why? Was I always such a sellout to love? I think back to my other relationships as I take a drag. No, in every relationship that came before Caleb — I had the power. I blow my smoke in his direction, but he’s gone. I stub out the cigarette. Why did I feel the need to do that? God.
I don’t go to bed. I sit on the couch all night, drinking rum straight from the bottle. Self-reflection is not something I excel in. I think of myself as being perfectly photoshopped. If I started scraping at the layers of what I’m suppressing — what I’ve put a pretty picture over — things would start looking pretty ugly. I do not like to think about who I really am, but the loneliness and alcohol are loosening my restraints. I call Sam to distract myself. When he picks up, I can hear music in the background.
“Hold on,” He says.
He comes back on a few seconds later.
“Is Estella okay?”
“Yes,” I say annoyed. I can hear his sigh of relief.
“I am not a good mother,” I announce to him. “I’m probably worse than my own self-absorbed, critical, gin and tonic drinking mother.”
“Leah, are you drinking?”
“No.”
I set the bottle of rum aside. It misses the table and crashes to the floor. Good thing it was empty. I flinch.
“You better have pumped before you did that,” he snaps.
I start crying. I did. Everyone is so judgmental.
He hears me sniffling and sighs. “You’re a pretty bad mother, yes. But, you don’t have to be.”
“Also, Caleb still has strong feelings for Olivia.”
“Can you just not focus on Caleb for once? You’re obsessed. Let’s talk about Estella-“
I cut him off. “I think I’ve always known this, but I’m not sure. I can pull dozens of memories from some private storage room in my brain that only alcohol has the key to unlock. Most of the memories are of looks — the ones he gives her and not me.” I bite my kneecap and rock back and forth.
“You know what, I have to go,” Sam says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hangs up. I toss my phone aside. F*ck Sam.
When Caleb looks at her, his eyes shift into a different gear. It’s like he’s seeing the only thing that matters. I am sickly familiar with the way he looks at Olivia, because it is the way I look at him. When I stand up, the room swings. I am so drunk I can barely understand my own thoughts. I stumble upstairs and into my closet. I pull down bags and suitcases until I am surrounded by L’s and V’s and the subtle rich smell of leather. I’m going to leave him. I don’t deserve this. It’s just like Cammie said. I’m being half loved. I stuff a few handfuls of clothes into a bag and then collapse on the floor. Who am I kidding? I’ll never leave him. If I leave him, she wins.
I wake up with my face pressed to the floor. I groan and roll onto my back trying to fit the pieces of last night together. I feel worse than the day I gave birth. I wipe the drool from my face and stare around at the mess. Suitcases and duffel bags are littered around me like my closet rained them. Was I trying to reach something when I knocked these down? I have the violent urge to vomit, and I hurl myself towards the toilet, making it just in time to empty my stomach into the bowl. I am gasping for air when Caleb strolls in, smelling clean and fresh. He is dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, which is odd since he works today. He ignores me as he slips his watch over his hand and checks the time.
“Why are you dressed like that?” my voice is raspy like I spent the night screaming.
“I took the day off of work.”
He won’t look at me, a bad sign. I am trying to remember what I did to him, when I catch a whiff of my hair. Smoke. I inwardly groan as the memories come drifting back. That was so stupid.
“Why?” I ask cautiously.
“I need to think.”
He heads out of the bathroom, and I follow him downstairs. Sam is feeding the baby, he raises his eyebrows when he sees me, and I run my fingers through my hair self-consciously. Screw him. This is entirely his fault. Ever since he showed up, my life has slowly started unraveling.
Caleb kisses the baby on top of her head and walks toward the door like he is late for something. I chase after him.
“What do you need to think about? Divorce?”
He stops suddenly, and I slam into his back.
“Divorce?” he says. “Do you think I should divorce you?”
I swallow my pride and the challenge that is on the tip of my tongue. I have to be smart. I’ve let myself get carried away lately. Pushed him when I had the chance to make things right.
“Let me go with you,” I say evenly. “Let’s spend the day together — talk.”
He looks unsure, his eyes darting to the nursery door. “She’ll be fine with Sam,” I assure him. “It’s not like I do anything anyway…”
My statement seems to seal the deal. He nods once, and I want to scream in relief.
“I’ll just be five minutes,” I say.
He heads out to the car to wait for me. I launch myself up the stairs two at a time and slam through the door of my closet almost falling over in the process. I put on a clean pair of jeans and pull a t-shirt over my head. In the bathroom, I splash water on my face, wiping away the smudged makeup and take a swig of mouthwash. I don’t bother with new makeup.
I come running out the front door, and I have a small heart attack when I don’t see his car. He left me. I am ready to fall down in the driveway and cry when his shiny BMW turns the corner. Relieved, I get in and try to play it cool.
“You thought I left you,” he says. There is humor in his voice, and I am so relieved to get something other than coldness, that I nod. He looks over at me, and I see surprise cross his face. I look down at myself self-consciously. I very rarely let him see me without makeup, and I never wear t-shirts.
“Where are we going?” I say, trying to distract his attention from how disgusting I look.
“You don’t get to ask questions,” he says. “You wanted to come along, so here we go…”
I’ll take it.
He turns the radio on, and we drive with the windows down. Normally I would have a fit about the wind messing up my hair, but I’m so beyond caring, I almost enjoy the feel of it on my face. He heads south on the highway. There is nothing but ocean in this direction. I can’t even begin to guess where he’s taking me.
We pull into a gravel driveway about an hour later. I sit up straighter in my seat and peer around. There is a lot of foliage. Suddenly, the trees open up, and I am staring at aquamarine water. Caleb takes a sharp left and pulls the car underneath a tree. He gets out without saying a word. When he doesn’t do his usual spiel of coming around to open my door, I jump out and follow him. We walk in silence, trailing the water until we come to a small harbor. There are four boats, bobbing gently on the swells. Two of the four are newer looking fishing boats. He passes these and heads for an old Sea Cat that is in bad need of paint.
“Is this yours?” I ask, incredulous. He nods, and I feel momentarily affronted that he never told me that he bought a boat. I keep my mouth shut and climb onboard without his help. Sea Cats are a British brand. I'm not surprised; he usually buys European. I look around in disgust. I am allergic to things that are not shiny and new. It looks like he has started to work on it. I smell the sharp tang of sealant, and I spot the can next to the hatch.
I try for a nice, neutral comment. “What are you going to call her?”
He seems to like my question, because he half smiles as he messes with the rope that holds us to the dock.
“Great Expectations.”
I like it. I was prepared not to, but I do. Great Expectations is the name of the book where he chose Estella’s name. Since I gave birth to the screaming pile of flesh, I feel pretty good about the whole thing. So long as it has nothing to do with Olivia. Don’t think about her, I chide myself. She’s the reason you’re in trouble in the first place.
“So are we going to take her out?” I ask the obvious question. His head is still bent, but he lifts his eyes to look at me as his hands work. It is one of those things that only he does. I find it incredibly sexy, and I get butterflies. I sit down on the only available seat — which is ripped — and watch the muscles in his back as he turns on the engine and steers us out of the harbor. I am so insanely attracted to him, even in the wake of our fight, I want to rip off his clothes and climb on top of him. Instead, I sit ladylike and watch as we cruise over the water. We stay like this for a long time, him at the wheel and me waiting. He turns off the engine. The shoreline runs in a parade of sand dunes and houses to my left, the ocean dark and blue to my right. He walks to the helm and looks out over the water. I lift myself from my seat and walk the few steps to join him.
“I leave tomorrow for Denver,” he says.
“I won’t go postpartum and kill your daughter — if that’s what you’re getting at.”
He tilts his head slightly and looks down at me. “She’s your daughter, too.”
“Yes.”
We watch the waves lap against the side of the boat, neither of us speaking our thoughts.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the boat?” I run my fingernails over the pad of my thumb.
“I would have eventually. It was a spur of the moment purchase.”
That’s fair enough, I suppose. I’ve bought shoes that probably equaled the cost of this thing without telling him first. But, spur of the moment meant it was an emotional purchase. The kind I made when I was in depression or worried about something.
“What else are you not telling me?”
“Probably the same amount of stuff you’re not telling me.”
I cringe. So painfully true. Caleb could see through walls like nobody’s business. But, if he really knew what I was not telling him, he’d be gone tomorrow ... and I couldn’t have that.
If he really was hiding more — I was going to find it.
“You know everything about me — all of my secrets and family drama. What could I have to hide?” I say.
He faces me. There is a dark cloud behind him. It seems like an omen. I shiver.
“There is a lot I don’t know about you,” he says.
My mind immediately goes to the fertility monitor and Clomiphene I was using to get pregnant.
His brain is working overtime. I can see the burning behind his irises. When Caleb thinks, his eyes practically glow. I hate that. The benefit is, I always know when he’s on to me. His eyes now dart to mine; they drop to my mouth, and then lift back to my eyes. He narrows his and tilts his head like he’s reading my thoughts. Can you read a secret on someone’s face? I f*cking hope not.
“When you came to me that night … in the hotel … were you trying to get pregnant?”
I remove my eyes from his and stare down at the water. Goddamn, he can. My hands are shaking. I fist them. Then I fist him with the truth.
“Yes.”
I don’t know why I tell the truth. I never tell the truth. Damn it all! I want to suck the words back into my mouth before they reach him, but it’s too late.
Caleb links his hands behind his neck. His eyebrows are up, up, up, creasing his forehead into half a dozen little lines. He’s mad as hell.
I think of that night at his hotel. I went there with determination. I had a plan. My plan worked. I never thought I’d get caught. Caught I was. I flick my thumbnails across the pads of my fingers.
Flick
Flick
Flick
Caleb is biting the inside of his cheek. It looks like he wants to take off running. He runs to think. When he speaks, his words come from between his teeth.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He looks up at the sky, the struggle evident on his face. “I love her so much…” his voice cracks. He leans an arm on the side of the boat and peers into the water with me. “I love her so much,” he starts again, “I don’t care how she came to be. I’m just glad she’s here.”
I breathe a sigh of relief and look at him out of the corner of my fearful eye.
He swallows, once, twice…
“You got pregnant on purpose. And now you don’t seem to want her.”
It’s hard to hear … both parts. Chilling and true and ugly.
“I thought she’d be a boy.” My voice is so low it’s competing with the waves, but Caleb hears me.
“And if she were? Would you like being a mother then?”
I hate when he forces me to think. Would I? Or was this role something I was doomed to fail at, boy or girl?
“I don’t know.”
He lifts his head to look at me. I eye the scruff on his face, and I want to touch it.
“Do you want her?”
Don’t tell him the truth!
“I ... I don’t know what I want. I want you. I want to make you happy…”
“But, not Estella?”
His voice is catching edge. The edge that usually indicates I’m in big trouble. I try to work my way out of it.
“Of course I want her. I’m her mother…”
My voice lacks conviction. I used to be such an accomplished liar.
“What you did after that … was that planned out too?”
I watch his chest play the in/out game. Rapid angry breaths … he’s steeling himself for my answer.
I suck in all the air that the sky has to offer. I pull it until my lungs burn. I don’t want to let it go. I want to hold that air and hold the confession he’s forcing out of me. I don’t have to tell him the truth.
“Caleb...”
“God, Leah, just tell me the truth…”
He runs a hand through his hair, walks a couple paces to the left so that I can only see his back.
“I was upset … Courtney-“
He cuts me off. “Did you do it to make me come back?”
I swallow. F*ck. If I say no, he’ll keep asking me questions until he traps me.
“Yes.”
He swears and drops to his haunches, his fingertips pressed on his forehead like he’s trying to hold his thoughts in.
“I think I need time to think.”
“No, Caleb!” I shake my head from side to side. He shakes his up and down. We look like a couple of distraught bobble heads.
The whirlpool starts, panic sucking me down until I whimper, “Don’t leave me again. I can’t take care of her alone.” I drop my head.
“You won’t have to, Leah.”
I look up at him hopefully.
“I’ll take her with me. She’s my daughter; I’ll take care of her.”
Oh God. What have I done now?
He gets up, turns on the Cat’s engine and we are slicing back toward shore, the remnants of my sanity shredding.
The minute he ties us to the dock, I am off the boat and racing to my phone, which I left in his car. I want to get out of here. My fingers become boneless as I fumble with the screen, jabbing uselessly. I dial a taxi service and tell them my location. I am shivering despite the heat. My God, what was I thinking telling him that? I can barely breathe as I see him walk down the dock and toward where I am perched against the hood of his car. Even in lieu of our current situation, my heart stirs at the sight of him. I love him so much my heart aches. He won’t look at me. I don’t know what this means, but thinking is never a good thing. Thinking stirs up a dangerous maelstrom of emotion. My emotion almost drowned me once. I don’t want to go back there.
The gravel shifts beneath his feet as he walks to where I sit. My arms are wrapped around my waist as I try to press my sanity back into my torso. He stops a few feet away. He’s coming to check on me. He hates me at this moment, but he’s coming to check on me. “I called a cab,” I say. He nods and looks out at the water, which is just visible beyond the copse of trees where he parked his car.
“I’m going to stay here,” he says. “I’ll call you when I’m back so I can pick up Estella.”
My head snaps up. “Pick her up?’ Oh yeah, that.
“I’m going to take her to stay with me for a while at my condo.”
I breathe through my nose, grappling with my emotions, trying to rein back control of the situation.
“You can’t take her from me,” I say through clenched teeth.
“I’m not trying to. You don’t want her, Leah. I need some time to think, and it’s better if she stays with me.” He rubs his forehead while I calmly panic.
I want to scream — Don’t think! Don’t think!
“What about work? You can’t take care of her with your work schedule.”
I’m trying to buy time. I messed up, but I can fix this. I can be a good mother and a good wife…
“She’s more important than work. I’ll take some time off. I have a trip next week, after that, I’ll come get her.”
My thoughts drag. I can’t come up with excuses for why he can’t do this to me. I can use the baby as leverage — threaten him — but that would screw me in the long run. If he wants to take some time, maybe I should let him. Maybe, I need time too.
I nod.
He presses his lips together until they burn white. Neither of us says anything for the next twenty minutes. He waits with me until the dingy looking cab pulls up, spraying gravel at our ankles until it comes to a stop. I climb in, refusing to meet his eyes. Perhaps he is waiting for me to turn around and tell him that it was all a lie. I look straight ahead.
The drive from the Keys back to Miami is taken across narrow patches of land that stretch out over deep blue water. I refuse to think … all the way home. I just can’t do it. I focus on the cars we pass. I look in their windows and judge their passengers: sunburned families coming from vacation, blue collared workers with bored expressions, a woman crying as she sings along with the radio. I look away when I see that one. I don’t need to be reminded about tears.
When I get home, Sam has just put the baby down for the night. He studies my face and opens his mouth, the questions ready to pour out.
“Don’t f*cking say anything,” I snap. His mouth is still hanging open when I storm up the stairs and slam my door. I hear his Jeep pull out of the driveway a few minutes later, and I peek through the drapes to make sure he’s gone. I pace around my room, flicking my fingernails, and trying to decide what to do about this mess Olivia created. Then almost abruptly, I jerk toward the hall and slip inside of the baby’s room. Tiptoeing to her crib, I peer over the edge like I expect to find a snake instead of a sleeping infant.
She is on her back, her head to the side. She's managed to wriggle a hand free of Sam’s swaddling and she has it fisted and partially in her mouth. Every few seconds, she starts sucking on it so fiercely I think she is going to wake herself up. I back up a few steps in case she sees me. I don’t even know if she can see me yet. Mothers usually keep charts of these things — first smile, first burp, first whatever. I tilt my head and look at her again. She’s grown, gotten a little less — yuck. I’m surprised that I can actually see myself in her face, the curve of her nose and the sharp chin. Babies usually just look like blobs until they’re four, but this one has a little character to her face. I suppose that if any baby were to be cuter than the rest, it would be mine. I linger for another moment before stepping out. I close the door and then I open it, remembering that I am on my own tonight. No Caleb. No Sam. Not even my self-absorbed, alcoholic mother. I have watched Sam and Caleb enough with the baby to know the basics. You feed it, it craps the food out, you wipe away the crap, you put it in the crib … you drink.
Oh God. I slide down the wall until my butt hits the tile, and drop my head between my knees. I can’t help feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t ask for this life — to be loved second best and to be forced to have a baby. I wanted … I wanted what Olivia had and threw away — someone who adores me even though my insides curl and lash like a poisonous snake. No! I think. I am not the poisonous snake. Olivia is. Everything that I’ve had to do is her fault. I am innocent. I fall asleep that way, sniffling and wiping my nose on my pant leg, assuring myself of my innocence and listening to my daughter breathe. Maybe she’d be better off without me. Maybe I’d be better off without her.
I wake up to a siren. Fire! I jump up, my muscles unraveling in protest. I am disoriented and not sure where I am. It is dark, still night. I place a hand against the wall and sniff for smoke. Not a siren … a baby. I am not really relieved; I might have preferred the fire. I head to the kitchen, knocking things over in my haste to find a bottle and a pack of breast milk. I swear out loud. Sam must have moved things around, because I can’t find anything. Then I see the note taped to the fridge.
No more breast milk.
You need to pump.
Damn. I look at the breast pump, which is sitting on the counter. It will take at least fifteen minutes to pump the amount she needs, and she is screaming so loud I’m afraid someone will hear and come to investigate. I see Child Protective Services showing up on my block, and I cringe. I can’t afford any more run-ins with the law.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I pause at the nursery door, taking a deep breath before pushing it open. I flick on the light and flinch. The sudden change seems to make her angrier too, so I flick it off and put on the small lamp in the corner. I remember picking the lamp out at The Pottery Barn. A brown bear … for my son. I head to the crib for my daughter. She is soaking wet. Her diaper has leaked through her clothes and onto her sheet. I set her on the changing table and pull off her onesie. Once it’s off and I’ve re-diapered her she seems to calm down, but she’s still wailing.
“Shush,” I say. “You sound like a cat.” I move to the five thousand dollar rocking chair my mother bought me and sit in it for the first time.
“You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?” I glare at her as I lift my t-shirt. I look away when she latches on. It takes all of my willpower not to yank her off. The next thirty minutes are pure torture. I am a human bottle. My legs are crossed, and I bounce my foot to keep my sanity. My eyes are closed and pressed against my fingertips. I hate this. She falls asleep still sucking. I lift her to my shoulder to burp her, but she beats me to it and burps in my face. I laugh a little because it’s so disgusting and carry her to her crib.
Standing back, I feel a small sense of accomplishment. I can take care of a baby.
“Let’s see you do that, Olivia.”
The constant cycle of feeding continues until the sun cracks through the palm trees like an overzealous, f*cking spotlight. I hide my head under my arms as it shines through the flimsy nursery curtains, cutting a line straight for my eyes. I’d moved myself into her room a few hours earlier, curling up on the twin bed in the corner. There had been no sleep — none. Nothing. I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. I smell like sour milk. I am just about to haul myself to my feet when her caterwauling starts up again.
“Oh God,” I say, crawling towards her crib. “Please, just let me die.”