Harvesting the Heart (60 page)

I also know that there are many facts Nicholas can list about me and still the most important truths will be missing.

Bless me, Nicholas, for I have sinned.
The words run through my mind with every footstep that leads me out of the Prescotts' house. I drive down the streets of Brookline and make familiar turns to our own house. For the last half mile I turn off the headlights and let the moon cut my path, wishing not to be seen.

I have not been to confession in eight and a half years. This makes me smile—how many rosaries would Father Draher pin on me to absolve me of my sins if it were him I was turning to instead of Nicholas?

My first confession was in fourth grade. We had been coached by the nuns, and we waited in line, saying our act of contrition before going into the confessional. The chamber was tiny and brown and gave me the sinking sense that the walls were coming in around me. I could hear the breathing of Father Draher, coming through the latticed metal that separated us. That first time, I said that I had taken the Lord's name in vain and that I had fought with Mary Margaret Riordan over who would get the last chocolate milk in the cafeteria. But when Father Draher didn't say anything, I began to make up sins: I had cheated on a spelling quiz; I had lied to my father; I had had an impure thought. At that last one Father Draher coughed, and I did not know why at the time, since I hadn't any idea what an impure thought was—it was a phrase I'd heard in a TV movie. “For your penance,” he said, “say one Our Father and three Hail Marys.” And that was that; I was starting with a clean slate.

How many years has it been since I have had to make up sins? How many years since I realized that an endless number of rosaries can't take away the guilt?

The lights are all off at the house, even in Nicholas's study. Then I remember what Astrid said. He is trying to get a good night's sleep. I feel a pang of conscience: maybe this would be better done some other time. But I don't want to put it off anymore.

I stub my toe on Max's walker, which is stuffed into the corner of the hallway. Soundlessly I move up the stairs and tiptoe past the nursery to the door of our bedroom. It is ajar: Nicholas will be able to hear Max if he cries.

This is what I have planned: I will sit on the edge of the bed and fold my hands in my lap and poke Nicholas so that he wakes up. I will tell him everything he should have known from the start, and I will say that I couldn't let it go any longer and that I'll leave him now to think about it. And I'll pray for kindness the whole way home.

I am betting it all on one turn, I know that. But I don't see any other way out. Which is why when I creep into the bedroom and see Nicholas, half naked and wrapped in our pale-blue comforter, I don't just sit on the edge of the bed. I can't do that. If things don't work out for the best, at least I'll be able to know where his heart lies.

I kneel beside the bed and tangle my fingers in the thick sheaf of Nicholas's hair. I put my other hand on his shoulder, amazed at how warm his skin is to the touch. I slip my hand down to his chest and feel the hair spring against my palm. Nicholas groans and stretches, rolling over on his side. His arm falls across my own.

Moving very slowly, I touch my fingertips to his eyebrows, his cheekbones, his mouth. I lean forward until I can feel his breath on my eyelids. Then I inch closer until my lips brush his. I kiss him until he begins kissing me back, and before I can step away he wraps his arms around me and pulls me to him. His eyes fly open, but he does not seem surprised to find me there. “You cleaned my house,” he whispers.

“Our
house,” I say. His hands are hot against me. I stiffen and pull away, sitting back on my heels.

“It's okay,” Nicholas murmurs, propping himself against his pillows. “We're already married.” He looks at me sideways and gives me a lazy smile. “I could get used to this,” he says. “You sneaking into my bed.”

I stand up and catch my reflection in the mirror. Then I rub my palms on the legs of my jeans and sit gingerly on the edge of the bed. I wrap my arms close, hugging myself tight. Nicholas sits next to me and slides an arm around my waist. “What's the matter?” he whispers. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

I shrug his hand away. “Don't touch me,” I say. “You aren't going to want to touch me.” I turn and sit cross-legged opposite him. Over his shoulder, I watch myself in the mirror. “Nicholas,” I say, seeing my own lips move over words I never wanted to hear. “I had an abortion.”

His back stiffens, and then his face sets, and finally he seems to be able to exhale. “You
what?”
he says. He moves closer, and the rage that darkens his features terrifies me. I wonder if he will grab me by the throat. “Is
that
where you were for three months? Getting rid of my child?”

I shake my head. “It happened before I met you,” I say. “It wasn't your child.”

I watch expressions flicker across his face as he remembers. Finally, he shakes his head. “You were a virgin,” he says. “That's what you told me.”

“I never told you anything,” I say quietly. “That's what you wanted to believe.” I hold my breath and tell myself that maybe it won't make a difference; after all, Nicholas had been living with his other girlfriend before he decided to marry me, and these days very few women come to marriage untouched. But then again, not all women are Nicholas's wife.

“You're Catholic,” he says, trying to fit the pieces together. I nod. “That's why you left Chicago,” he says.

“And that's why,” I add softly, “I left Max. The day that I went—the day he fell off the couch and got that nosebleed—I figured I had to be the worst mother around. I had killed my first child; I had hurt my second. I figured no mother was better than someone like me.”

Nicholas stands up, and I see in his eyes something I've never seen before. “You may be right about that,” he says, speaking so loud I think the baby will wake. He grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me violently, so hard that my neck wrenches and I cannot see straight. “Get out of my house,” he says, “and do not come back. What else do you want to get off your chest? Are you wanted for a murder rap? Are you hiding a lover in the closet?” He lets go of my arms, and even in the dark I can see the ten perfect bruises left by his clenched fingers, still glowing with his pain.

He sinks onto the edge of the bed as if his weight has suddenly become too much for him to bear. He bends down and holds his face in his hands. I want to touch him, to take away the ache. Looking at him, I wish I had never spoken. I reach out my hand, but Nicholas flinches before my skin brushes his.
Ego te absolvo.
“Forgive me,” I say.

He takes the words like a brutal blow. When he lifts his head, his eyes are red-rimmed and brimming with fury. He stares at me, seeing me for what I really am. “God damn you,” he says.

chapter
36

W
hen Nicholas was a sophomore undergraduate at Harvard, he and his roommate, Oakie Peterborough, had got drunk and sprayed the fire extinguisher's foam all over their sleeping resident dorm adviser. They were put on probation for a year and then had gone their separate ways. When Nicholas entered Harvard Med, Oakie entered Harvard Law, and years before Nicholas had ever done surgery, Oakie was already an associate at a Boston law firm.

Nicholas takes a sip of his lemon water and tries to find the slightest resemblance between the Oakie he knew and the matrimonial attorney who sits across from him at the restaurant table. He was the one to call and ask about a lunch date, and Oakie, over the phone, said, “Hell, yeah,” and penciled him in that afternoon. Nicholas thinks about Harvard and its connections. He watches the cool confidence of his old roommate as he settles his napkin on his lap, the shifting indifference of his eyes. “It's great to see you, Nicholas,” Oakie says. “Amazing, isn't it, how you work in the same town and still never get the chance to see your old friends.”

Nicholas smiles and nods. He does not consider Oakie Peterborough an old friend; he hasn't since he was nineteen and found him with a hand down Nicholas's own girlfriend's pants. “I'm hoping you can give me some answers,” Nicholas says. “You practice family law, don't you?”

Oakie sighs and leans back. “Family law—what a crock. What I do doesn't keep families together. Sort of a contradiction in terms.” He stares at Nicholas, and his eyes widen in realization. “You don't mean for yourself,” he says.

Nicholas nods, and a muscle jumps at his jaw. “I want to find out about getting a divorce.” Nicholas has lost a lot of sleep over this and has come to a decision with blinding clarity. He doesn't give a damn what it costs him, as long as he gets Paige out of his life and gets to keep Max. He is angry at himself for letting down his guard when Paige came into the bedroom last night. Her touch, the lilac smell of her skin—for a moment he was lost in the past, pretending she'd never left. He almost forgave the past three months. And then she told him the one thing he would never forget.

He starts shaking when he thinks of another man's hands on her body, another man's child in her womb, but he believes that with time the shock will pass. It's not really the abortion that upsets him. As a doctor, Nicholas spends so much time and effort saving lives that he can't personally support the decision to have an abortion, although he understands the motives of the pro-choice camp. No, what unnerves him is the secrecy. Even if he could listen to Paige's reasons for terminating a pregnancy, he couldn't understand hiding something like that from one's own husband. He had a right to know. It might have been
her
body, but it was
their
shared past. And in eight years, she never thought enough of him to mention the truth.

Nicholas spent the early morning trying to push from his mind the image of Paige begging for mercy. She had been shadowed by the mirror, so that there were two of her, her words and actions mocking her like a clown's silhouette. She had looked so fragile that Nicholas couldn't help but think of the wispy heads of dried dandelions, vulnerable to a breath. One word from him, and he knew she would fall apart.

But Nicholas had enough anger pulsing through his blood to block out any residual feelings. He was going to beat her at her own game, taking Max before she could use the poor kid to absolve her of guilt. He was going to get a divorce and drive her as far from him as possible, and maybe in five, in ten years, he wouldn't see her face every time he looked at his son.

Oakie Peterborough blots his meaty lips with his napkin and takes a deep breath. “Look,” he says, “I'm a lawyer, but I'm also your friend. You ought to know what you're getting into.”

Nicholas stares him down. “Just tell me what I have to do.”

Oakie exhales, a sick sound like that of an overboiled kettle. “Well, Massachusetts is a state that permits fault in divorce cases. That means you don't have to prove fault to get a divorce, but if you can, the property and assets will be divided accordingly.”

“She abandoned me,” Nicholas interrupts. “And she lied for eight years.”

Oakie rubs his hands together. “Was she gone for more than two years?” Nicholas shakes his head. “She wasn't the primary breadwinner, was she?” Nicholas snorts and throws his napkin on the table. Oakie purses his lips. “Well, then it's not desertion—at least not legally. And lying ... I'm not sure about lying. Usually, just cause for fault is things like excessive drinking, beating, adultery.”

“I wouldn't be surprised,” Nicholas mutters.

Oakie does not hear him. “Fault would
not
include a change of religion, say, or moving out of the house.”

“She didn't move,” Nicholas clarifies. “She
left.”
He stares up at Oakie. “How long is this going to take?”

“I can't know yet,” he says. “It depends on whether we can find grounds. If not, you get a separation agreement, and a year later it can be finalized into a divorce.”

“A
year,”
Nicholas yells. “I can't wait a year, Oakie. She's going to do something crazy. She just up and left three months ago, remember—she's going to take my kid and run.”

“A kid,” Oakie says softly. “You didn't say there was a kid.”

When Nicholas leaves the restaurant, he is seething. What he has learned is that although courts no longer assume that a woman should have custody, Max will go wherever his best interests lie. With Nicholas working so many hours a day, there is no guarantee of custody. He has learned that since Paige supported him through medical school, she is entitled to a portion of his future earnings. He has learned that this procedure will take much longer than he ever thought possible.