WORTHY, Part 2 (15 page)

Everything I did, I did to better both myself and my child’s living situation.

Anything I read, online or otherwise, I read aloud for my growing baby’s benefit. I wanted that child to be whip smart right out of the womb. I read parenting articles and blogs about pregnancy. I bought books and downloaded them to the iPad, reading about all the correct things to eat and the which things to avoid, making sure I was getting all the nutrition that I needed. I played music constantly after I read it was good for a developing baby. If an article had told me that standing on my head for five minutes every day would make my baby a little bit healthier or a little bit smarter or a little bit happier, I’d do it. I would do anything for the life inside of me.

As it was, I simply tried to live a joyous life, tried to bring my baby nothing but peace, and tried not to think about Jonathan more than I had to.

The truth of the matter was that even though I’d cleaned the cottage from top to bottom, burned a bunch of things that were ruined by my absence or ruined by memories of him, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was there with me somehow. I hadn’t exorcised his presence from the cottage, and I wasn’t sure I ever would be able to.

Could I survive like this, sometimes calling out to him that lunch was ready? It hurt me each and every time. What hurt me even more was how much I missed him, how much I wished we could just forget everything and be together again. It was hard to go on during days like that. On days like that, I would focus extra hard on the baby inside me, talking a mile a minute about everything and nothing, doing absolutely everything I could to distract myself from my sorrow.

I had the feeling that my baby could understand my various moods, and the last thing I wanted was to be constantly negative or depressed. My baby deserved every ounce of happiness I could give to it.

I stared at myself in the mirror sometimes, trying not to remember how it was Jonathan who had brought my reflection back into my life in the first place. He’d made me stare into my own eyes, so sure that I was blind to my beauty that it angered him. My scar hadn’t changed one iota — it was still as ugly and livid as ever. But with no one to see, I forgot about putting makeup on every day. I went weeks without so much as glancing at my trusty bottle of foundation, which had been my bread and butter in Chicago.

What would my child think of my scarring? Would my face scare my baby? I scooted back from the mirror a little and stood to the side, in profile, before lifting up my shirt. I worked so hard and exercised so much that I still wasn’t showing. It disappointed me a little. I knew that my child was growing every day inside me, and I wanted a little physical proof of that fact.

I tried pooching out my stomach, imagining what it would be like when I got really big. I liked the idea of it, of having a big tummy to hold, knowing that I was holding the life within.

I was going to be a mother. It was a revelation every day when I woke up. I was going to be a mother, and I was going to be a damn good one. It was an affirmation, one I sometimes liked to shout just to hear it echo in the woods.

“I’m going to be a mother, and I’m going to be a damn good one!” I’d holler, startling birds from branches and George yanking on his stake, trying to reach a choice patch of grass or flowers in the field. I was doing everything right, all of my books assured me. I was doing the best that I possibly could be doing, the articles on the Internet told me, patting me on the back.

One thing I wasn’t being very good at, though, was getting myself back to Chicago for a prenatal checkup. I still didn’t even have a guess as to how far along I was, or just what was going on with the life growing inside me. I felt good about the life I was living, though. I was eating a healthy, balanced diet and getting plenty of exercise. I was still sometimes sick in the morning, but now that I understood the concept of morning sickness, it wasn’t so bad. Sometimes, I’d sleep right through it, missing out on the barfing part altogether. I was always hungry afterward, now, and enjoyed making food for myself. I was cooking and eating for two, and my recipes reflected that.

I never had the same thing for breakfast, always challenging myself to switch it up to something new. I experimented with different types of muffins, had every variety of oatmeal possible, made puddings and smoothies of fruits and vegetables, had omelets of every kind.

“What did you think of that?” I would ask my child as I washed the dishes from my latest culinary experiment. “Is that recipe a keeper? You let your mama know and I’ll write it down so you can make it one day.”

My child was becoming my best friend. I never felt lonely around the cottage when I realized I had someone to talk to — no matter how much it might or might not understand.

And it wasn’t nearly as painful for me to go to bed anymore, wishing that Jonathan’s arms were around me, holding me tight to his chest. Instead, I now kept my arms wrapped tightly around my stomach for the entire night, knowing that I wasn’t alone, knowing that my baby was growing inside of me. It was always with me, and I would always be there for it.

I craved knowing whether it was a boy or girl. The selfish part of me wanted a girl. We’d be best friends and I’d teach her everything about everything. The masochistic part of me wanted a boy, wanted him to look just like his daddy so I could gaze at him and remember all the good memories we’d shared before he was born, before everything between Jonathan and me had gone to shit.

But it was so hard to think about leaving the cottage, even if it was for a doctor’s appointment to assure the health of my unborn child. I didn’t want to go anywhere near Chicago, even if it was for a prenatal checkup. I started toying with the idea of hiring a doctor to come out here. I had plenty of money to afford such a luxury, and that was even without accessing the Wharton fortune. I’d stopped spending Jonathan’s money the moment I’d arrived back at the cottage. When I was at home there at the cottage, I wanted to only rely on myself. I had the resources to do that.

“Don’t worry,” I told my baby. “I’ll get a doctor out here and he’ll tell me how wonderful you are. Everything will be just fine.”

But right before I made my decision on the doctor I’d drag all the way out to the wilderness just to affirm what I already knew, someone knocked on my front door.

When I heard the first knock on the door, I just ignored it. I’d been ordering a plethora of things lately and figured it was just a delivery. They’d leave the box, and as soon as I had a moment, I’d retrieve it from outside the door. I wondered what it could be. Maybe the cradle? Perhaps it was all the bottles I’d ordered in bulk. I was buying all kinds of things for my baby, excited at the prospect of having all those little pajamas and socks and shirts around. I’d been buying everything in yellow and green just to remain ambiguous. As soon as I knew the gender, I’d get a little more specific.

The second knock got my attention. It wasn’t as if I could hide or pretend not to be home. I’d left that wretched convertible in plain sight. Anyone who stumbled upon the cottage, there for a delivery or otherwise, knew that someone was here.

Someone who somehow had a BMW convertible.

For the first time that I could ever remember, I didn’t feel safe. I should’ve pushed that car to the barn, gotten it out of sight of the road. I was an idiot, used to not worrying about anything when I came to the cottage. I needed to start thinking smarter, stop being so damn naïve, and protect myself and my child.

The third knock sounded, and I was up and headed for the kitchen, looking for the biggest knife to wield.

“It’s going to be all right,” I whispered to the baby. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Michelle. Please open the door.”

I hadn’t expected it to be Jonathan. Perhaps that was the worst of all — that it was my husband outside, not a murderer, and I dreaded that fact even more. I hadn’t bargained on him coming out here, though I guess deep down I knew he’d figure out where I’d fled to. There wasn’t any place for me other than this cottage.

“That’s your dad,” I whispered. “Don’t be scared. We just haven’t seen him in a while.”

If it had been just me in the cottage, if the pregnancy test had come up negative, maybe I wouldn’t have let Jonathan in. Maybe I would’ve shouted expletives at him, told him to get the hell out of my life, to never come back again, not after the way he’d treated me.

But if I was living and eating for two, I was also thinking for two. I quietly and carefully replaced the knife in its holder, gave my stomach a pat, and opened the door.

God, he was beautiful. I’d never get over how handsome my husband was. If I was lucky, our baby would take after him. Not seeing Jonathan for more than two months had taken its toll on me. I had to clasp my hands together in order to not bury my fingers in his dark hair. It had gotten longer since our wedding.

He looked older somehow, too, and utterly tired. I wondered how long he’d been back in the country. He still seemed jet lagged, as if he hadn’t slept or gotten back into the groove of his old life — the one where he was married to me, not traveling the world with his former fiancée, Violet.

But those eyes, those intensely blue eyes, were just the same. They burned their way to my heart, made me wish I could forget about all the terrible things we’d said to each other.

I bit my lip. All I wanted to do was blurt out that I loved him, that I was sorry for everything, that all I wanted to do was be with him, that we should stay here in the cottage for the rest of our lives and turn our backs on the Whartons, that we were going to be parents to a wonderful child who would be the best of both of us.

But I said nothing. I waited for my husband to say something, to explain himself, to tell me why he was here in my cottage.

This was my cottage, not his anymore, no matter how thoroughly my memories of us together still haunted the place. No amount of ammonia or scrubbing could get rid of them. This was my cottage, and my life, and I was working to make them both the best they could be for the new life within me. As much as I loved Jonathan, I loved the idea of that even more. I had to do the right thing for my child. Whether or not the best thing involved its father remained to be seen.

“You stole my car, I’m told,” he said, glancing over at the convertible still parked in the field. If I let the grass and wildflowers get much longer, they would soon swallow it up. I would probably have to take George over the area with a leash — closely supervised. “My parents will be relieved that I found it — and you. Everyone’s worried about you.”

“Everyone?” I repeated, unable to meet his blue eyes. I’d lose myself in those eyes, and then I’d lose everything. I had to be strong for the sake of my child — our child. I couldn’t just get bowled over by the sight of my husband.

“Well, you know my mother,” he said, shrugging a little.

That hadn’t been what I’d wanted to hear. I’d wanted to hear that Jonathan was worried about me, was concerned about where I’d gone.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Don’t you have a company to run?”

“Yes, yes I do,” he said, brisk and suddenly all business. “The vote of no confidence was rescinded, and I was reinstated as CEO.”

“That’s good,” I said carefully. “That’s what you wanted.”

“But not what you wanted, was it?” he asked, smiling a little cruelly.

I said nothing, and that gave him his answer. I would’ve followed him anywhere, would’ve stayed forever at the Wharton compound, enduring the fact that I didn’t fit in there, trading barbs with Amelia for all of time if it hadn’t been for those photos.

But maybe, in some terrible twist of fate, it was for the best. Without those photos, I would’ve still been miserable, a virtual prisoner at the compound. I was free now, living back in the cottage in the woods. This was going to be the best place for my child. Once it was born, I’d bring it back out here to live for as long as it wanted. I would get a home schooling certificate so my child would be educated. By that time, I’d know everything I needed to know about homeopathic treatments for just about everything.

“I was always happiest here,” I said, though that wasn’t the whole truth. The whole truth was that I was happiest when Jonathan was here with me, back when we weren’t worrying about pharmaceutical conglomerates and CEOs and jilted fiancées. Back then, the only thing we worried about was falling in love, knowing each other inside and out, enjoying the best of what nature had to offer.

“I don’t belong out here,” Jonathan said. “I need to take my place as CEO. I need to devote myself to the company. That’s who I am, Michelle. That’s what I need to be doing.”

“There was a time when you didn’t know who you were,” I reminded him. “Have your memories suddenly come back while you were away?”

“Of course not,” he said. “You’d be one of the first people I’d tell.” I somehow doubted that, especially now. I imagined that Violet would be the first one he would tell (“Come back to me, love! I’ll get my other marriage annulled!”), followed closely by Brock (“Dude, have you seen my wife? What level of beer goggles was I wearing when I decided to tie myself down to that dog?”), and then Amelia (“Mom, you were right about everything.”).

“Then how do you know?” I implored. “How do you know that Wharton Group is your life?”

“Because it’s my name,” he said. “And it’s your name, too.”

I shuddered at the implications. Just because I had married Jonathan didn’t mean that I’d inherited his thankless job at the head of a company that had just tried to depose him, did it? Would he try to drag me back to that life by force? I was ready to make my stand.

“I’m not going back there,” I said. “I want to stay here at the cottage from now on.”

“And I can’t stay out here,” Jonathan said. “The man I’m supposed to be belongs back in Chicago, CEO of Wharton Group.”

We’d reached an impasse that I’d always feared would happen. We were from two completely different worlds. It was a miracle that we’d fallen in love in the first place.

“I didn’t sleep with Brock,” I said suddenly, aware that it was a non sequitur at this point, aware that I had considered saying the exact opposite to try to win my husband back. I thought I’d do anything to get a father for my baby, but I couldn’t do this. I needed him to know that I hadn’t done anything wrong.

“I saw the pictures, Michelle,” Jonathan said, looking even more exhausted. It struck me that I should invite him in, have him sit down and rest, maybe even fix him something to eat, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even extend those tiny courtesies.

“And I saw pictures of you with Violet, kissing her all around the world,” I said.

“Those pictures didn’t happen,” he said, looking angry.

“Why didn’t those pictures happen?” I demanded. “Why did my pictures happen, but yours didn’t? Why is there that difference between them?”

“Because you admitted to partying that night with Brock,” Jonathan said. “You knew what kind of person he was. I don’t know why you even went.”

“I went out with Jane and Brock,” I said. “Both of them. As friends. They were helping me not be so lonely. I was dying without you, Jonathan. I never heard from you. I was a prisoner in the compound. They just wanted me to be happy.”

“I hope Brock made you very happy,” he spat bitterly.

“And I hope Violet helped you maintain that CEO position while you were traveling abroad,” I said. “What, does she enjoy the power thing? Are you going to keep her underneath your desk at the office so she can suck your cock on command?”

“For the last time,” Jonathan began, his voice forcefully even, “Violet was never with me. Ever. Not on any leg of the trip.”

“I saw the photos,” I mocked.

“I never once saw her!” my husband shouted, making me jump before I crossed my arms over my chest and lifted my chin at him defiantly.

“Are you saying your sister’s a liar?” I asked. “She’s the one who showed me all those photos. She said Violet had been texting them to her. Jane told me she hated me being made a cuckold. She wanted me to know. She wanted me to confront you, to tell you to stop being such a dick.”

I was probably paraphrasing, but I’d gotten the gist of it.

“Jane’s on vacation,” Jonathan said, looking irritated. “I’d talk to her myself, get some answers, but she’s turned her phone off and gone on a sailing trip around the world.”

Now that he mentioned it, I remembered Jane toying with that plan when she talked about going on vacation all that time ago. It seemed like another lifetime. I was glad she’d picked the sailing trip. It sounded like the most adventuresome thing to do.

“If you just admitted that you’d been with Violet, maybe we could move forward,” I said. “I told you everything I remembered from my night out with your sister and Brock. Why can’t you at least come clean with me? There are so many pictures, Jon.”

“There is nothing to come clean about,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I never once saw Violet while I was abroad. And just because you don’t remember doing something doesn’t mean that you’re automatically absolved of it! Based on those photos, you fucked Brock that night.”

“Based on your photos, you had a lovely jaunt with your former fiancée during the time you and I should’ve been here, enjoying our honeymoon!” I roared back at my husband.

All I could think about was that I hoped our baby’s first impression of its daddy wasn’t that he was angry all the time, fighting with its mama. That would be a terrible complex. I’d have to remember later to look up the point in time when babies first started forming memories. I hoped it wasn’t in the womb.

Without any sort of warning, Jonathan lunged at me. My first thought was that he was going to try to hurt me, as out of character as that would’ve been. Hell, I didn’t know what to expect out of him anymore. I thought I’d known him, thought his heart was an open book, but I knew now that he was a stranger to me.

Maybe he’d been that other Jonathan all along, the one I kept hearing about but didn’t like.

I didn’t have time, though, to react when he came at me. All I could do was stiffen and prepare myself the best I could. What was it going to be? A kick? A punch? A slap?