Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [90]
“I’m pregnant.”
Looking at Carl was like watching a space shuttle launch. Control, shaking, violent shaking, combustion, blast off. All I could do was wait for him to settle into his orbit.
“I’m speechless. Absolutely speechless.”
Not a good time to point out that he obviously wasn’t if he was speaking. I held onto my bare feet. They were clammy or maybe that was my hand.
“You’re kidding,” he said. “No. You’re not kidding. This is crazy. Lunatic. What were you thinking?”
“Um, I didn’t get pregnant by myself.”
“Don’t get smart with me right now. This is a shock, an absolute shock. Wait. When did you find out?”
“Last week. After I had to—”
“One week. So you knew about this before you left rehab. And you kept it a secret from me?”
Rage moved to sonic levels. “I was afraid you’d want me to sign out early. I didn’t want to fight with you about it, and I wanted to finish the program. Get as much time working on me as I could. I didn’t do it to hurt you. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
“Gee. I think I heard those words in this same room about a month ago. You’re sorry. I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry you lied to me. How ironic. You had the nerve to jump all over me for not telling my parents, and then you turn around and lie. Do you really think you’re in any shape to be a mother? You can’t even take care of yourself yet. And now you’re telling me you’re going to take care of a child?”
I recoiled. “Hold on. Since when have I not been a good mother? Don’t go there. We really don’t want to have that fight now.”
He calmed down. Radically. He scared me when he was this calm. That usually signaled he was going for the final emotional blow. “Well, since you did find out this news while you were in rehab, did all those counselors and doctors we paid all that money for help you in your research?”
“Research? What research?”
“Fetal alcohol syndrome. That research.”
38
I slept in my own bed for the first time in a month.
Carl slept on the sofa.
In one way, a perfect end to a not-so-perfect day. In a million other ways, a perfect disaster.
After Carl's comment about Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, I calmly walked out of the den and into the bedroom and not so calmly slammed the door behind me. I flung the decorative round pillows, square pillows, and sausage-shaped pillows on the floor. Like so many nights before in this same bed, I climbed in and slid under the covers without bothering to change my clothes. A white eyelet sundress was close enough to sleepwear that night.
After a while of convulsing in tears, I forced myself out of bed. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and changed into one of my long sleeveless nightgowns. Long, just in case Carl decided to leave the den and sleep in our bed. And then there was the ceremonial taking off of the watch. Years ago, I’d mentioned if anyone ever had a notion to buy me a Rolex, not to bother unless it had emeralds and diamonds in the bezel. I’m not sure at what point in which wine bottle I may have made that announcement. Kudos to Carl for remembering, but what I thought was sarcasm, he took as a veiled request. Then again, I hadn’t purged myself of all my shallowness because it was stunning, and I really did want to keep it.
I placed it back in the white box for tonight.
Good night, watch. Good night, closet. Good night, bathroom. Good night, my very own bed. Good night, Carl, sleeping in the den.
Morning tiptoed in so quietly, I didn’t realize it arrived. Even the sun seemed less obnoxious. No Theresa snoring, burping, or gassing. A few twittering bluebirds, and I’d feel like I was on the set of a Disney movie.
Carl's pillow was as plumped up as it’d been last night. No tucked-in swaddling. I inched across the empty space to the other side of the bed to see if he’d left a note. No.
What time was it anyway?
My sassy new Rolex didn’t have legs, so if