My announcement falls to the pit of my stomach and rots. He doesn’t want a baby. I’m becoming more numb by the second.
“This is fucked up.” He slams his fist on the table. Fucked up. He’s right; it is. All of it. I don’t want him to be with me out of pity like he will be with Stephanie. I don’t want to stoop to her level and manipulate his decision to be with me. She’s manipulating him. This is just another form of her fucked-up manipulation. Another symptom of her screwed-up way of thinking. I refuse to force him to be with me. I can’t do it to Jack and I can’t do it to myself. I’m not begging. I’m not falling to my knees. I’ve lost enough integrity already. I can’t ask him to abandon his child—the child Stephanie is carrying—any more than I could ask him to leave his wife for me.
That’s it.
Done.
I’m on my own.
And I’m suddenly mad. I’m mad with him for being so fucking careless, for giving her the opportunity to trap him like this. “You were sleeping with her.” I look up at him.
His face falls. “Not for months, Annie. And she was on the pill.”
“Then how?”
His head drops, ashamed, confused, sorry. “She forgot to take a pill here and there. That’s all it takes. She must be over four months now, because that’s how long it’s been since we were—”
“I don’t need to hear it, Jack.” It doesn’t matter how far gone she is or how it happened. It’s happened. Nothing can change that. “Go.”
I’m fighting to keep my world together. I feel let down, and I have no fucking right to. And I’m now damning myself to hell for being so careless, too. “Just go, Jack.” I speak levelly. It’s a far cry from how I’m feeling on the inside, yet my objective now is to bat the devastation down. I feel like all the life has been sucked out of me. I feel empty.
Jack’s head shakes mildly. “Annie…” He reaches across the table for my hand but I pull it back, placing it with the other in my lap, keeping my gaze low.
“Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.” Keeping my breath steady is taking everything I have. “Please,” I add, closing my eyes on a swallow. This is going to be the challenge of my life. But at least I don’t have to spend the rest of my days with someone I don’t love. At least guilt isn’t dictating my future. It is for Jack.
I push myself up from my chair, being sure not to look at him. Detachment. Close down, shut off. It’s done. “You should go.”
“Annie, please, lis—”
“Is it going to change anything?” I ask, and despite myself, I look at him. I find a face invaded with pure misery and hopelessness. I flinch and glance away. “If I listen, will it change anything?”
“I have to be there for my child.” He grates the words on broken air. “I can’t abandon my baby.”
The irony of the situation doesn’t escape me. This is what I deserve. This is karma. There’s another baby, one he doesn’t know about. And one that he won’t know about. I hate him right now. But I hate myself more. “Go,” I demand.
“Annie…”
“Just go!” I scream, losing it. “Get out!”
There’s a brief silence before I hear his chair scrape the floor. “I’ll always love you, Annie.”
“Don’t say that,” I whisper, unable to be near him any longer. “I don’t need to hear that.” I get up and walk away from him in a blur of ruin and pain, my eyes furiously welling with tears. He watches me go. I feel his eyes trained on my back every step of the way. But I don’t look back. Not now. Not ever again.
Chapter 26
I’ve dragged myself through my working week, staggering blindly from meeting to meeting, fighting to keep it together. It’s been the fight of my life, constantly batting away the quiver in my voice and the tears that threaten to break free. When I’ve been home, my apartment has been drenched in darkness while I’ve hidden from the world and fought to find the determination I need to take the next steps in my life.
Aside from my meetings and work commitments, I’ve only ventured outside twice this past week. To go to the doctor, and then to the private clinic. Lizzy came with me, supportive of my decision.
I’d hoped another test would spring up negative. I hoped in vain. A scan told me I’m six weeks pregnant. A discussion with a nice lady who works at the surgery helped me make my decision. It’s the right decision. I can’t do this alone, but more significantly, I can’t be reminded of Jack every day for the rest of my life. No child deserves a single mother riddled with bitterness and regrets.
Lizzy has been a constant support. She hasn’t thrown any I-told-you-so’s in my face. She’s just been here for me, cuddled me when she’s seen my mind drift and made sure I’ve eaten. She has been here all morning helping me prepare for today. By tomorrow, I will no longer be pregnant. If I give too much time to processing the magnitude of that, I’ll undoubtedly fall to the deepest depths of the black pit I’m balancing on the edge of and never claw my way out. Numbing myself to it all is easier. It’s the only way I can be sure to get through this horrific stage in my life. And I asked for it all. I deserve it all.
Karma isn’t just a bitch. She’s a barbaric psychopath.
Lizzy hands me my bag packed with everything I need for the clinic, along with my leather slouchy bag. “How about we decorate your bedroom?” she says, steering me away from thinking about where we’re heading. “When you’re on your feet again after…” Her words fade to a wisp of air.
“After I’ve had an abortion,” I finish for her. “You can say it, Lizzy.”
She glances away, thinking, but she doesn’t say what she’s thinking. I know exactly what that is. Am I sure? She’s asked me the question without judgment or any sense of disapproval a dozen times. My answer has been consistent and automatic. Yes. Every time, yes.
“Ready?” she asks.
I nod and we head for her car. Our drive is quiet but not uncomfortably so. The private clinic in North London looks welcoming as we roll up. It’s been overdecorated on the outside with shrubs, pots of flowers, and plants, making it seem like a happy place. I smile at the irony of it. The receptionist is over-friendly and the interior over-cozy. Everything is overdone. Lizzy checks me in while I take a seat, glancing around the waiting room at the other women I’m sharing a room with—all younger than me, some obviously with their mothers, too. Young girls who have gotten themselves into trouble. Young girls who have come here to have their problem sucked out of them. I flinch at my agonizing thoughts, looking up at Lizzy when she hands me a clipboard.
“You need to fill this out,” she says, taking a seat next to me and handing me a pen.
Resting the form on my lap, I begin the task of completing my details—name, address, date of birth. It’s all straightforward, but every time the point of the pen meets the paper, I start to shake terribly, unable to write down the simple answers.