Exiled (A Madame X Novel) (9 page)

He grabs me by the shoulders, holds me. Stares into my eyes. “Goddammit, Isabel. You should have waited. I would have gone with you.” He blinks a few times. “Why would he send you that stuff?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.” I pull away. Turn away. “I’m sorry I worried you, Logan. I just—I had to do it alone. It was important that I did this myself.”

He sighs, behind me. “I get it. I was just . . . you weren’t here, no note, nothing. I came home early to take you for lunch, and you were gone. I thought—” His teeth click together, he cuts off so abruptly.

“You thought I’d left you.”

“The thought crossed my mind, yes.”

I turn back to him. “I wouldn’t, Logan. I would never just vanish like that.”

“I know. I just—you were just gone, and my mind started going in circles. I thought maybe Caleb had shown up again, snatched you.”

“I’m sorry.”

He crosses to me. Wraps his arms around me. “It’s fine, Is. You’re here. I’m fine. It’s fine.”

I shake my head. That’s not what I meant. “I’m sorry, Logan. I’m sorry, I—I’m so sorry.” I’m crying.

He holds me at arm’s length, ducking to try to catch my gaze. I shake my head and lean into him. “Hey, hey. What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” It’s all I can say. I’m hysterical, hyperventilating.

“Isabel. Calm down. Breathe, okay? Breathe for me. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Just breathe.”

I breathe. Push down the panic.

Yank myself out of Logan’s arms, pace away, the couch, stop. Grip the back of the couch for support. Turn and look at Logan through tear-blurred eyes.

“I went one other place, too.” I toss the DHL envelope on the couch cushions. Breathe, breathe, breathe. “A clinic.”

“What . . .” He takes a step toward me. “What kind of clinic?”

I bite my lip. Summon the words. Force myself to say it out loud. Two words.

“I’m
pregnant.”

H
oly shit.” He stumbles.

Stares at his feet for a moment, wipes a palm across his face. And then he’s in motion. Wrapping his arms around me. Pulling me around to sit on the couch. On his lap on the couch. My cheek to his chest. Hand on my back, rubbing in soothing circles as I sob.

“You’re pregnant. How long have you known?”

“I just took the test.”

“But if you took the test at a clinic, you’ve been worried about it for a while, then. Right?”

I shrug. “I suppose. I was worried. I missed my period three weeks ago. The doctor at the hospital thought I might be pregnant, actually. So it’s been in my mind all this while. And I’ve been getting sick in the mornings lately.”

A silence.

“Holy shit. You’re pregnant.” A silence. “We’re having a baby.”

“Logan.” I realize something, a factor I’m not sure he’s thought of. “I—The time frame. I don’t know—”

He takes my face in his hands, lifts my face up so I’m looking at him. There’s nothing but love in his eyes. “I’m not an idiot, Isabel. I
know
.” He kisses me, quickly, softly.

“Logan, it may not be—”

“You were with both him and me in the same span of time. So it could be either Caleb’s or mine. That’s what you’re saying. And I’m saying I know.”

“And you’re not—you don’t—?”

“What did you think I’d do? Kick you out? Tell you to take it to him? Say, ‘Not my problem’? I love you, Isabel. I’m here. We’re together. No matter what happens.” He pauses. “Is it easy for me to accept? No. I’m not sitting here saying, ‘Hey, cool, the woman I love is having a baby and we don’t know if it’s mine or the man who’s cost me five years in prison and my eye.’ It’s not cool. It’s not fine. Thinking about it in those terms makes me a little crazy.”

“That’s what I’m—”

He doesn’t let me finish. “But what I’m not going to do is condemn you or hold anything against you or push you away. It’ll take time to come to terms with, but I’ll do that in my own way, on my own terms and in my own time. And I’m not going to get all nasty with you over it in the meantime.”

This just makes me weep all the harder. “I don’t understand you, Logan, and I certainly don’t deserve you.”

He touches my chin, and I meet his gaze. He speaks softly. “Doing the right thing isn’t always easy, Isabel. You know that. But it’s always an option. It’s a choice. To be a good person is a choice, day by day. I had to choose—still have to choose each and every day—to not hate Caleb for everything he’s done to me, to not seek revenge. I have to choose, in this case, to continue loving you, no matter what. That means accepting the reality of difficult circumstances. I’m not going
to abandon you or push you away. It’s hard, yes, but my love for you is stronger.”

I cling to him. “I love you, Logan. I was so scared. So worried about what you’d say, what you’d do.”

“His, mine, I don’t care. It’s
ours
. We’ll handle this together.” He goes silent. “Have you decided if you’re . . . keeping it?” This sounds like an afterthought. Something he realized I may have considered.

“I haven’t gotten that far, Logan. I don’t even know . . . what to do. What to think. What I want. I want to not be pregnant. I want to not . . . I want to not be such a horrible person that I don’t even know which of you is the father. How awful is that? What kind of horrible woman am I, that I’m pregnant and don’t even know who—who . . . who the—the father is?”

I break down, then. Truly break down.

Sobbing. Mucus dripping. Chest heaving. Hyperventilating. Unable to function, to see, to move, to do anything other than just . . . break.

Shatter: to break suddenly and violently into pieces.

Logan just holds me. Lets me break, and clings to me through it.

I don’t know how long I break, there against the wall of Logan’s chest. How long he holds me. How long it takes me to shatter completely, until there’s nothing left of me.

*   *   *

I
have no recollection of being picked up, carried, and set down in our bed. But I come to awareness, eventually, and I’m there, in our bed. Logan is spooned behind me. I can tell by his breathing that he’s awake.

I lie silent a long, long time, letting my mind work. Letting my thoughts and emotions just flow, flicker, flit-stream.

How is it even possible? I am on birth control, and I have been for a very long time. You brought me to the same clinic in your office building, where I lived, where you live, where I had the chip removed. There was an examination, you watching like a hawk all the while. And then the doctor inserted something into me. Birth control, the doctor explained. An IUD. The process was a little uncomfortable. There was some pain, some dizziness, nausea. Normal, I was told, considering my young age and that I had never given birth before; it will pass. And it did. I had regular checkups by your private doctor thereafter. Once a year, that same doctor would perform an overall examination. You even had the doctor replace the IUD a year ago, as it had reached the end of its efficacy term.

Perhaps it came out? I don’t know. I never thought to check. I should have, I was told to, but I never did.

Or, perhaps, it just didn’t work. Nothing is ever 100 percent effective, I remember the doctor saying as much.

I slip out of bed and go into the bathroom, check for the IUD; it’s still in place, which I assume means it failed.

In the end, though, it doesn’t matter how it happened. It did. It’s real. I’m pregnant. A human being is growing within me.

What do I do? The counselor at the clinic outlined three basic choices: abortion, adoption, or raising it myself. Which do I choose?

Abortion? Terminating the pregnancy?

I consider it. But something within me rebels against that idea. No. Not that.

So, adoption, or delivering the baby and raising it.

Adoption, delivering the baby to term, and giving it away for someone else to raise. Could I do that?

No. My heart rebels against that just as strongly. If I am going to carry the child for nine months, I could not then give it away. Give
her or him
away. Say, as Logan put it,
Not my problem
? I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

I’m scared. I’m terrified. I don’t know how to be a mother. I don’t know how to raise a child. I don’t even really know who I am, yet. Maybe I never will. How could I then raise a person, teach that child to be the best he or she could be? What could I teach them? What do I know? How to be addicted to a man who doesn’t love me. Doesn’t care for me. Just wants to possess me.

Is that true, though?
A sinister little voice whispers, deep inside me.
What about the last time you were with him? He kissed you. He made LOVE to you. As Jakob. What if . . . ?

No.

No.

No.

Even if you COULD love me, if you did, it wouldn’t be enough to overcome all that I have endured at your hands. Even though you have given me a life, given me somewhere to live, even though you were there for me, caring for me when I was helpless and had no one. It isn’t enough. It can never be enough.

And nothing you could ever feel for me, nothing you could ever do or say could ever match what Logan feels for me. The way he makes me feel. The way I feel about him.

I am complete, with him.

I have an identity, a future, potential, with him. I am
someone
, with him.

With you . . . I will always only be Madame X.

A possession.

I have to tell you.

The life growing inside me could be yours. I don’t think there’s any way to know until I give birth. Will the baby have blue eyes and blond hair, like Logan? Dark eyes, dark hair, like you? Like me? What if the baby’s features aren’t distinctive enough to tell me who the father is? What then?

Does it matter?

If I told you—
when
I tell you—what will you say? Will you want it? Want me? Would you insist I get an abortion? Try to force that on me? Manipulate me and twist me into it? If I had still been Madame X and this happened, I came up unexpectedly pregnant, what would you have done? Let me have the baby? Let me raise the baby on my own, alone, perhaps stopping by once in a while? I don’t know. I don’t know what you would have done. What you will say. What you will do.

I just don’t know.

So I can’t abort the baby—God, my heart twists in painful knots just thinking that. I can’t. I can’t.

And I can’t give the baby away. That too hurts to even think.

So I am keeping the baby.

As if a human being is a stray dog to just . . .
keep
. It is a life growing within me. A soul. A mind. Talents. A smile. Hugs, kisses.

*   *   *

M
ama is a warm weight on top of the blankets, on the edge of my bed. Her arm is over me, her fingers toying with my hair. She’s singing a lullaby to me, the same lullaby she’s sung to me every night for my whole life. I am too old for lullabies, probably. But I don’t care. I love these moments, when I am clean and my hair is damp on the pillow, blankets pulled up to my chin, Mama’s breath on my ear, her voice singing sweetly, softly, a song her mother sang to her, and so on down the generations. So Mama tells me, some nights. An age-old song. I feel myself start to fade, to fall into sleep. I welcome it. My window is open, and the sound of the ocean crashing against the shore is another lullaby.

I hear her humming now. The tune only. Stroking my hair.
“Duerme, mi amor.”

Fading in and out, listening to the waves. Later, I hear my door creak.
Heavy footsteps. Papa’s cologne. His hand, warm and heavy on my shoulder. Whiskers on my cheek, breath smelling faintly of the red wine he and Mama drink when they think I’m asleep.

Kiss to my cheek.
“Te amo, mija.”

I am too nearly asleep to even murmur.

Now that Papa has kissed me good night, I can sleep.

*   *   *

I
smile to myself. They loved me, my mama and my papa.

I will love this one—my hand goes to my belly. I will love this one.

“I’m keeping the baby.” I whisper it.

Logan’s hand slides over my hip, his fingers tangle with mine, over my stomach. “Good.”

“I’m so scared, Logan.” My voice quavers. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“You’re not doing it alone, Isabel.”

“But I don’t . . . I don’t know how to be a mother. I barely even remember my own. A few snatches of memory. Her cooking for me when I was a little girl. Her singing an old lullaby to me in Spanish. But . . . how do I mother a child? I’m not—I don’t—”

“Love, Isabel. That’s how. Hugs, kisses, lullabies. Be there. Just . . . love. The rest we’ll figure out together, as we go. That’s all anyone has ever done, I think. I don’t think anyone is ever ready for a baby, sweetheart. No one really knows what they’re doing. You just . . . do the best you can. Love them, be there for them, take care of them to the best of your ability. That’s all you can do.”

“But what if . . . what if it’s his?”

“Will he want it? Will he want, like, joint custody or something, if it is?”

“I have no idea, Logan. I don’t even know how to tell him. I don’t
know if I ever want to see him again.” I shake my head against the pillow. “He has answers. He knows things about me. There’s a history, there, somewhere. He
knew
me. I know he did. But . . . if I see him again, I’m afraid of what will happen. Me changing has changed him. I don’t want to . . . to see him anymore. Even if I never find out the answers, I don’t want to see him. I am Isabel now, yes. But I am also the woman who was Madame X. I am both. Madame X is still a part of who I am. So is he. But now . . . so are you.”

“We’re a part of each other.”

“It’s all so . . . messy.”

“Life is messy, Is. We’re all just . . . fumbling around out here. Living, doing the best with what we’ve got. It’s never easy, and it’s never simple.”

“I wish it were.”

“So does everyone else.”

“Not everyone has been through what I have.”

“True. And I’m not trying to make light of that. Just saying, you’re not alone in this mess called life.”

“I have you.”

“Exactly.” He pulls at me, so I’m on my back. I turn my head to look at him. He’s removed the patch, and the space where his eye used to be is a wrinkled, scarred hole. It’s strange, but it’s part of him. “Listen, Isabel. I promised you I’d love you, no matter what. I do. I will. I’m making that promise again. I love you. No matter what. Okay? You want to tell him, I’ll go with you. You want to stay clear of him, we’ll make sure you never see him again. We’ll move to freakin’ Thailand if we have to. Okay? I’ll take care of you.”

“And the baby?”

“And the baby.”

I can’t help crying again at that.

And again, he kisses me. Kisses the tears away. Wipes them with the broad pad of his thumb. Kisses my lips.

It’s going to be okay.

*   *   *

I
t is early in the morning, and we are having breakfast. He shoots me a glance, sets the newspaper down. “Babe?”

I lower my mug of tea. “Yes, Logan?”

He snorts. “You gotta loosen up, honey.” He straightens his spine, makes a tight, sour face, raises his voice to a falsetto, and captures my inflections precisely. “‘Yes, Logan?’ Like for real, if I say, ‘Hey, babe,’ you should say something simple and
normal
, like . . . ‘What’s up, buttercup?’”

I frown at him. “What does that mean, ‘What’s up, buttercup?’ It strikes me as trite and empty.”

Another laugh. “It is. Which is why it’s funny. Just . . . try it. So let’s start over.” A pause, and he clears his throat. “Hey, babe?”

I slouch in my chair, make a grumpy face, affect as deep a voice as I can. “Yo dude, what’s up?”

A big broad shout of genuine laughter. “Exactly! I love it!”

I straighten. “Now that we’ve gotten
that
out of the way, what is it you wanted to ask me?”

“You ever see the touristy stuff around here? Like, the Statue of Liberty and all that?”

I shrug. “Probably before, but not recently that I am able to recall.”