But apparently, I had used up all my wishes, wishing and praying for him because here I am, awake ignoring the ringing phone. The answering machine sounds and our voices fill my ears, prompting the caller to leave a message.
God, we sounded so fucking happy.
Another lie.
“Lacey, it’s Dr. Spiegel. I’ve tried calling your cell several times. I know you’re dealing with a lot with Reina being in the hospital, but you’ve missed your appointment,” she pauses, and I turn my head to stare at the phone on the nightstand. “It’s important we continue our therapy sessions while you’re off your medication to ensure a safe and healthy pregnancy. Call me and we’ll reschedule.”
A beep sounds, signaling the message has ended and I roll onto my back. Staring up at the ceiling, I lift my hands to my temples and apply pressure, hoping to alleviate the pain. It doesn’t work very well, and I close my eyes in defeat. Subconsciously, I know I should get out of bed. If not for me then for the baby I’m carrying. I’m failing at motherhood and my baby isn’t even born. I don’t even remember the last time I ate or took my prenatal vitamins and yet, I can’t move. When did living become such a chore?
It’s always been a chore.
You’re just realizing it.
Trying to block out the sound of my maker, I drag the pillow over my head and even that is a struggle.
So pathetic.
“Shut up,” I groan. “Please, just shut up.”
She must take pity on me because she relents enough for me to hear the doorbell ring. I contemplate ignoring it like the phone, but they start to pound ferociously on the door.
Maybe it’s the men in the white coats.
Shoving the pillow off my head, I chuck it to the side and force my body to move. Something as simple as sitting up drains me and the thought of going down the stairs makes me want to cry. They say depression is a disease invisible to the naked eye because you don’t see the person deteriorate and for the most part, they’re right. These are the moments you don’t see. The dark and twisted struggles of the person who fixes a mask and paints a smile on their face to hide the pain.
I manage to get out of bed and as I drag my feet towards the door, I take in the clothes strewn all over the room. My actions from last night flash before my eyes and I remember the mess downstairs. I wait for guilt or shame to consume me, but it doesn’t happen. Why should I be sorry? I doubt my husband is sitting in his cell wishing he’d done things differently. Hell, I’m probably not even a thought in his mind.
I finally make my way down the stairs and carefully step over the broken shards of glass before pulling open the door. Sadly, the men in the white coats don’t greet me. Instead, Nico pulls off his sunglasses and studies me with wide eyes.
“Jesus,” he mutters. I don’t have the energy to acknowledge the insult. Besides, the longer I engage the longer he’ll stay, and all I want is to be by myself.
“What do you want?”
“I heard what happened and thought I’d check up on you,” he says tucking his sunglasses into the front of his shirt. “Looks like I made the right call.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“You need something,” he argues, raising an eyebrow, daring me to disagree. He snaps his fingers and his eyes light up. “Ice cream, you need ice cream. It worked for your brother.”
Ice cream is most definitely not what I need.
I need my husband.
I need for my life to go back to normal.
For this nightmare to end.
Unless Nico is a magician, he can’t supply me with any of those things. I don’t fight with him though, there is no use. I’m destined to lose every battle. Turning around, I leave him at the door and step into the living room. I’m fully aware what the house looks like and when he shuts the door behind him, he takes it all in.
All the pain.
All the heartache.
All the debris of my marriage.
“Lacey,” Nico calls softly from behind me.
“Don’t,” I warn. “Nothing you say will fix me.”
“Something needs to be broken to be fixed,” he replies, stepping around the couch. He takes a seat next to me and I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t turn to him.
“You should get your eyes checked,” I tell him, focusing on the wall across from me. “I’m the epitome of broken.”
“Nah,” he says, bumping his shoulder with mine. “You’re just a little bent.”
That makes me meet his gaze and I watch as he smiles. It’s easy, natural even, definitely not forced. I wonder if he realizes how much of a blessing that is. Does he take it for granted like the rest of the world or does he cherish the simple gesture? I count my smiles. I compartmentalize them and there are far more forced ones than natural.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but none of this can be good for you or the baby,” he says softly, his gaze flitting around the room. At the mention of my baby, my hand moves to my stomach and I finally feel something. A single emotion.
Guilt.
Tears spring in my eyes and I look away from Nico. As easy as it was for him to smile, it was easy for him to think about the wellbeing of the baby I’m carrying, something neither me nor Blackie have done much of over the last few days.
“Shit, I didn’t mean to make you cry, Lace,” he mutters, draping his arm around my shoulders. “I just…I’m going to shut up now,” he hisses.
Lifting my hands, I brush the stray tears from my cheeks and shake my head.
“No, you’re right,” I say, drawing in a deep breath. “I need to snap out of it.”
If only it were that simple. If being diagnosed a manic depressive has taught me anything, it’s taught me those suffering have no control. It doesn’t matter how much they want to be well they can’t just snap their fingers and be okay. They can take the steps but finding the courage to lift the phone and call your therapist or swallow the pills, well, it's like climbing a mountain. The first step is always the scariest and we all don’t make it to the top. Not everyone is lucky enough to see the beautiful. Sometimes, they stumble. They slip. They get knocked off the mountain and the thought of climbing it again is exhausting.
I guess when you think about it, it’s kind of like an addiction.
Isn’t that ironic?
Nico’s phone rings and he quickly removes his arm from my shoulders, digging into his kutte to retrieve it. I watch as he rolls his eyes and mutters a curse.
“Sorry, I’ve got to take this,” he says, lifting off the couch. Sliding his finger across the screen, he lifts the phone to his ear. “What is it, Frankie?”
If memory serves me correctly, Frankie is Nico’s youngest brother out of the two. If I had to guess, he is in his late teens now. Maybe even legal. The three of them are all fairly close in age considering they all have different mothers and are a product of Wolf’s three marriages.
Nico grits his teeth and balls his fist.
“What do you mean it broke?” he snaps. “Where are you?”
Giving him as much privacy as I can without leaving the room, I divert my eyes away from him as he paces the room. My eyes drift to the leather kutte draped over the back of the couch. Leaning forward, my fingers touch the worn leather and the sobriety patch that’s stitched to the bottom. Realizing its Blackie’s kutte, I pull it off the couch and drape it across my lap. The last time I saw it on him was right before he was arrested. He didn’t have it on in court.