Then Came You - Jennifer Weiner [93]
I struggled to my feet. “You know what?” My voice was pleasant, even, not too loud. “I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll lie down for a minute.” Ignoring the murmurs of concerns, my mother’s offer to make me a cup of tea and Nancy telling everyone that it was probably heartburn, I hurried up the stairs, collapsed on my bed, and started to cry. I was doing a good thing, I told myself. This was money for the four of us, money that I was working to earn, putting my body through the strains and risks of another pregnancy, so why couldn’t any of them see it? Why didn’t any of them appreciate the sacrifices I was making for Frank, for our boys, for our family? I’d done the best I could, made what I thought was a good decision, and what had I gotten but a husband who wouldn’t look at me or talk to me, a sister who thought I was no better than a prostitute, and a mother-in-law who thought I was immoral?
I rolled over, flipped open my laptop, and, before I could think about what I was doing, connected to Skype and clicked on India’s number.
Not home, I thought, but India picked up after the first ring. “Hi, Annie! Merry Christmas! How are you doing?”
“I’m fine,” I said . . . but I must not have looked fine, because India’s eyes narrowed.
“Oh my God. What is it? What’s wrong? Did something happen? Is the baby okay?”
“No, no,” I said, wiping my cheeks and cursing myself for scaring her. “The baby’s fine, everything’s all right, it’s just . . .” What could I tell her? That I’d gotten in a fight with my mother-in-law? That my husband hadn’t stood up for me? “I don’t know,” I finally said. “Maybe it’s just the holidays.”
“You’re overwhelmed.” India’s voice was kind. “And you must be exhausted. The weather’s been so terrible, and with two little boys . . . I don’t know how you’re managing.”
“I’m okay.” I was already regretting the call. What had I been thinking? That she’d fix things? That she’d know what to do? How could she give me any advice, how could she help, if I couldn’t even tell her what was wrong?
“I’ve got an idea. You and I should go somewhere warm for a few days.”
I shook my head. “I couldn’t leave. I’ve got so much to do, and Spencer and Frank Junior...”
“I can find them a sitter. Or maybe your parents...?”
I nodded, almost in spite of myself. More than once my mother had offered to host both boys for a few nights over the holidays, but I’d been so intent on proving I could handle everything—the boys, the pregnancy, my sullen husband—that I’d refused.
“They’re in Philadelphia, right? How about this? Text me if they can do it, and I’ll meet you at their house at noon. You should pack for three days.” She smiled. “And bring a swimsuit.”
“Oh, no, really. I couldn’t.”
“I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Where will we go?” I managed to ask.
“That,” said India, “is for me to know and you to find out.”
I hid in the bedroom, listening for the slamming doors and the car engines starting, until I was sure everyone was gone. Then I came downstairs to find Frank—big surprise—in front of the TV. “I’m going away for a few days,” I announced—not asking him, but, for the first time in my marriage, telling him. He nodded wordlessly, not even asking where I was going or with whom, before I went back to the kitchen to start on the dishes and he went back to the game. “Don’t go to bed angry,” the self-help books all said, but that night I fell asleep furious . . . and, as for Frank, for all I knew he’d never come to bed at all.
The next morning, I packed two suitcases, loaded the diaper bag and drove to Philadelphia. India was waiting for me, sitting in the backseat of a Town Car that was idling at the curb in front of