CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Saturday, May 27
Amy
Amy knew when to call time of death. It was a last resort, when all hope had been exhausted, but it was an instinct. Her duty. Still, each time, it gave her pause. Was there anything more she could do?
The morning she’d told Andrew she’d changed her schedule to accommodate dinner with her parents, he’d been zombielike, so distracted she was certain he hadn’t heard her. But that evening as she sped home from work, she’d nearly convinced herself she’d come home to Andrew standing in the kitchen, laying out plates, a blooming bunch of pink lilies on the table. Three months ago, this was the man he’d been. Without nagging or prompting. Andrew would kiss her parents on the cheek and wrap his arm around Amy’s waist.
As Amy drove home from work, the streets were glossy in the wake of a storm, the sangria sky aglow, and she bubbled with hope. But the inside of their house was still. Amy was rarely home alone, and this time she walked the space, considered the rooms in the absence of her husband, imagined how it might feel if that absence became permanent. The only evidence of him were the water droplets on the shower door and a trace of his cologne in the air.
Her phone chimed, and her heart sputtered. Andrew? But it was her mother, Elena, calling to announce they were passing Fort Lauderdale. Amy had thirty minutes to pop a bottle of chardonnay in the fridge and shower before their arrival. “Actually”—Amy lifted her tone so her mother wouldn’t know she was lying—“my shift ran late, and Andrew got called to a client meeting.” The lie was grimy. “Can you and Dad pick up some Thai food on your way over?”
When they hung up, Amy pulled up her call log, scanned for Andrew’s number. She scrolled back, past the dozens of calls from her colleagues. Her parents. When was the last time she’d spoken to her own husband on the phone?
Amy showered, her blood boiling. She’d had an appointment with Dr. Cassidy the previous Wednesday. Amy had sat in her car in the parking garage beforehand, wrestling her emotions. She wanted Andrew there, holding her hand, but the warm, swimming happiness that fantasy gave her made her despise herself. She’d never needed anyone. Amy had snatched her purse off the passenger seat and jogged to the bank of elevators.
Still, it was Andrew’s face that flashed in her mind when Dr. Cassidy confirmed she was, indeed, pregnant.
“It’s still very early. There are no guarantees, but we’ll check back in a few weeks.” Dr. Cassidy beamed. “Like I told you, sometimes these things just take time to happen naturally.”
Though she couldn’t take credit for anything, the doctor’s eyes were fixed on another glowing testimonial for her website, and Amy rested her hand on her abdomen and let Dr. Cassidy bask in her success. Amy would never tell her—or anyone—her pregnancy was attributed to a seedy backdoor shop in Miami.
Then Amy had wept in her car. Waves of elation rolled over her. She’d done it. She was going to be a mom. She’d won .
But she longed to share this moment—this joy—with the man who had vowed to stand by her side through better or worse. They’d gone through worse ; was she weak for aching for him when she got to experience better ? Her love for him was embedded deep inside her, she realized. Love was sticky, semipermanent. She couldn’t just unlove Andrew at will, despite the rage his absence, his indifference, ignited inside her.
So she’d decided to kill two birds with one stone: she’d announce her pregnancy to her parents in person and surprise Andrew with it at the same time. But with Andrew absent from the house, she couldn’t break her news. She had to tell him about the pregnancy before she told her parents; it was only right. But he’d robbed her of the gift she’d ached to give her mother.
Amy dressed, and her parents’ rental car pulled into the driveway, catching the rosy glow of dusk. Then her house was full again, of voices, of a long hug from her mother, a peck on the cheek from her dad, Thai food wafting from paper bags. The clink of silverware, chardonnay spilling into three glasses.
“Will Andrew make it in time for dinner?” Amy’s mother asked as she laid flatware on the table.
“I’m not sure.” Amy gave Elena a sweet smile, but mortification raged inside her. And she spotted it: the same look she’d seen in her mother’s eyes all those years ago, the same hardening Amy had felt since the evening she saw Andrew’s car in that bistro parking lot. Amy hadn’t expected the wallop of pain that came with having her suspicions confirmed in her mother. It was mortifying.
Amy allowed herself a tiny sip of chardonnay. Though it was hardly enough to rest on her tongue, guilt rose, but the wine was perfect—cool and crisp.
Andrew was out, doing whatever he did when she was at work, gallivanting about like a man with nothing to lose. It had gone on long enough. It was time to face her husband and his obvious—almost painfully deliberate—deception. A girlfriend? How cliché. But something niggled her. Selfish men had affairs. Dumb, vain men had affairs. That wasn’t Andrew. And she still sensed his love for her in the way he examined her when he thought she wasn’t looking. This was bigger than a girlfriend.
But unease stirred in her. When she confronted him, would that be the end of their marriage? If it was, would Andrew choose to be a father? Or would he pick whatever drew him to the midlevel restaurants of Lantana?
Amy allowed herself one more sip of chardonnay before she dumped the glass down the drain when her mother’s back was turned. She seated herself at the table, piled her plate with noodles. It was time to gather one more piece of evidence, to draw a final, indisputable conclusion. Then she could call it, one way or the other.
After hugging her parents goodbye, Amy backed her car out of the garage and parked it a block away, then walked back to her house under the glow of the moon. Andrew had assumed she was working, that he was free to do whatever he pleased with his evening. And without her car, he wouldn’t be aware of her presence in their house until she was ready.
She curled beneath the comforter in the downstairs guest bedroom. Sleep wouldn’t come until she heard him. Until it was time.
Andrew’s footsteps trudged inside and up to their bedroom just after midnight. Amy waited, adrenaline pumping with each of her heartbeats. I hope whatever it is, it’s worth it, Andrew.
But for the first time in her life, Amy was frozen with fear. Indecision. When she confronted him, her marriage would be ruined. Her vision for the life she shared with the man she loved would evaporate. Instead, hot tears rushed down her cheeks. Relief. Heartbreak.
Fear.
She sobbed into her pillow with her husband one floor above her, a world away, oblivious to her presence.