Chapter 58 Harriet
FIFTY-EIGHT
HARRIET
Warren’s house isn’t as expected. Maybe I’d allowed my brain to take liberties and imagine a tiny, run-down shack on the wrong side of town, explaining why he didn’t want me here.
It’s quite the opposite.
Marcus pulls up outside a well-kept traditional southern-style home, with white paneling and navy blue shutters. The garden is slightly overgrown, with rose bushes twisting around the picket fence. It’s the perfect family home, an image Warren and his wife probably pictured too.
We walk up the paved steps onto the front porch, where Marcus pulls out his keys, shaking them between us. “Got a spare for emergencies.”
Inside, the air is fresh, as if no one has lived here for months, which is exactly how it looks as we venture into the living space. Packing boxes were expected, but the layers of dust collecting on the cardboard and other surfaces tell me they’ve sat here for a while.
I stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure what to do next. In an ideal world, Warren would give me a tour, but nothing about today is idyllic. I just want to collect what I need and return to him.
Marcus senses my trepidation and points toward the stairs. “His room is down the corridor. First door on the left.”
“I won’t be long,” I tell him before heading upstairs.
His room is easy to find, and, similar to downstairs, it’s hard to imagine Warren existing in the cold, sparse bedroom. The bed is bare, the bedding stripped and in a heap on the floor. When was the last time he stayed here? In between staying at the cottage and his shifts, it’s hard to keep track.
The dresser isn’t as meager. Underwear. Socks.
Sweatpants. T-shirts. Enough clothes to last him a week.
I doubt he’ll be returning to work for a while, thanks to his injuries, and perhaps I’m turning into the protective one, but imagining him going back so soon has a sense of dread sinking in my stomach.
I throw everything into an empty gym bag and leave. I almost reach the top of the stairs when a doorway catches my attention. It’s the same as the rest: silver doorknob, white paint, only this one is closed. All the rest are open.
There are two voices in my head competing to be the loudest.
One tells me to move away, get back to the hospital. It’s closed for a reason and none of my business.
The other, a decibel louder, urges me to go inside, to give myself a peek in to the life Warren keeps hidden under lock and key.
The latter comes out victorious, leading me astray from my better judgment until my hand lands on the door handle. One glance, nothing more.
Twist and push.
Musty air and pitch black hit me first. I fumble for the light switch and blink rapidly until my vision returns.
Shock quickly follows.
It’s a nursery.
I stumble inside, confusion swirling overhead as I take in the cot, changing table, and rocking chair all pushed into the corner.
Protective plastic sheets crinkle under my sneakers.
Everything a baby would need is in here and so similar to the nursery Warren spent the day building for me at the cottage.
The only difference with this one is the blue walls.
An open paint can sits on the floor, the paint dried and congealed, a thick layer of dust and mold on top. The bristles on the brushes are rock solid, encased in long-dried paint.
We don’t know the gender of the baby, and from the decor, this room appears decorated for a boy.
I walk slowly over to the cot, where a white blanket hangs on the end. It’s soft, hand-knitted.
When I turn it over, my heart stops.
It’s embroidered.
Warren and I haven’t settled on what to call the baby, wanting to leave it until they’re here to decide.
Stitched in blue cursive writing is a name.
Carson.
My eyes dart around the room, searching for anything to help me understand what’s going on, when they land on a small picture frame. A black-and-white sonogram sits in the center, and, like everything else, a thick layer of dust coats it.
The patient name at the top of the scan drains all the blood from my body. My hand flies to my mouth, muffling a sound that’s something between a sob and a gasp.
Alison O’Connor.
This nursery isn’t for the child growing in my belly.
“Hey, I was wondering where…” Marcus cuts himself off. I don’t look at him as he enters the room. “Warren.” He murmurs his friend’s name in such a broken manner, it tells me this is as much a shock to him as it is to me.
Words get lost in my throat. I’m unable to drag my watery gaze away from the perfect picture of a baby. A baby boy who I don’t think ever saw the inside of this nursery.
A nursery, I suspect, that has sat like this, untouched and incomplete for eight years.
Piece by horrifying piece, the truth slots into place.
His initial reaction to hearing about my pregnancy.
His apprehension about taking the sonogram.
His fierce protectiveness and wanting to drive me everywhere.
His avoidance of having me over to his house.
Warren didn’t just lose his wife today. He lost his son.
Marcus isn’t surprised to find out Warren discharged himself from the hospital. Hurt scores his features, but he keeps it together, mostly for my sake. I’ve somehow mirrored his calmness, even when panic over Warren’s whereabouts crept in.
Warren isn’t answering his phone, and it was a shot in the dark coming here, but as we slowly roll through the quiet cemetery, I spot a lone figure hunched in the grass.
“There!” I tap Marcus’s arm, and he pulls the truck to a stop.
“Thank fuck.” He drops his head forward to the steering wheel.
Relief bleeds out of us.
I don’t believe Warren’s any harm to himself, but considering how disoriented he was earlier and knowing the true meaning behind today’s date, the last thing I want is for him to be alone.
“You go to him,” Marcus says. “I’ll park. Call me when you’re ready.”
“Thank you.” I squeeze his arm before climbing out of the truck.
Warren sits motionless in front of a gravestone as I approach.
He might not want me here or to hear my words.
For months, I’ve respected and remained patient with him, something I never plan on stopping.
Today, I’m being stubborn, because if he tries to push me away, to cover his pain, I’m standing strong.
He’s hurting, scarred from years old wounds, but his pain doesn’t need to be experienced alone. Not any longer.
The damp grass seeps through the canvas material of my sneakers, and the overcast sky shadows the rows of granite and marble headstones from the warm rays of the sun. I approach slowly, not wanting to startle him, and as I draw closer, the deep lilt of his voice floats with the wind.
“I’m so sorry for failing you.”
It’s those words, wrapped in the belief he had anything to do with the terrible tragedy that took his wife and child, that break me. The heart he owns irrefutably bleeds.
He tenses for a beat when I run my hands through his messy hair before he relaxes into my touch. A soft exhale escapes him.
“You never failed them,” I say softly. “Not once, and not now.”