“That I started?” Dorothy is clearly in denial. But then Mitch and I have almost never argued because I do not make waves. Or “start” things. I excel at giving in and smoothing things over. But a heretofore unknown child? Even the most careful, nonconfrontational person would have trouble staying calm after that kind of revelation. “He hasn’t returned any of my calls. We haven’t discussed what happened in any way.” This in itself is almost as alarming as the “ruckus” Dorothy alluded to. I have no idea what state of mind he’s in. Or how he might be dealing with this mess. “I don’t see how he could just show up as if nothing has happened.”
She sighs another beleaguered sigh. “Does he know you’re coming?”
“No.”
My mother-in-law stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Which is entirely possible.
I’d planned to be on the road long before Dorothy got up, but I’ve been dragging my feet because I have no idea what’s going to happen when I get there. And it occurs to me that she has as much right as I do to find out what her son is up to.
“You’re joking.”
“No.” I seriously doubt I have a scintilla of a sense of humor left.
“And your plan is?”
I shrug even though my stomach twists. A plan would be good. But so far all I’ve come up with is showing up at his apartment and forcing him to tell me what’s going on.
“You must have a plan of some kind. Something you hope to gain from showing up unannounced.” Her tone manages to be both disapproving and matter-of-fact. As if she’s still the efficiency expert demanding a clear and concise accounting of what each move is meant to accomplish.
I doubt there’s anything to be gained. I’m not even sure there’s anything to salvage. All I know is that my husband needs to explain himself and his actions. “He has a child, Dorothy.”
“He didn’t say that,” she replies stubbornly.
“But he didn’t deny it. I need to know what’s really happened and what it means.”
“It can’t mean anything,” she snaps.
“How can you say that?”
Her chin juts. “Because for better or worse, you’re the one he’s married to. You’re his wife. Although you haven’t been acting like it, staying in another city like you have, not knowing what’s going on.”
The blow lands way beneath the belt. If we were in a ring, I’d be staggering to the mat. “Did you know what was going on?”
Her face reveals her fury, her disappointment, frustration at her impotence. All the things I feel. “No. No, I didn’t.”
“Well, then. I’d think we’d both want to understand what’s going on. And if you do have a grandson”—my lips tremble on the word—“I’d think you’d want to meet him.”
Her lips clamp shut. Exactly the way her son’s did. Only she doesn’t run.
We make the trip in silence. I keep my eyes on the road and my hands on the wheel, as if being a safe driver will somehow protect me from whatever is about to happen.
We stop at a grocery store about a mile from Mitch’s apartment, and I call his cell phone one last time while Dorothy downs a bottled water. When he doesn’t answer, I leave another message that doesn’t include the fact that we’re in Birmingham. For all I know, he might flee the building. Or perhaps he already has.
In the grocery store restroom, I splash water on my face and put Refresh drops in my eyes. Then I apply makeup with a hand that’s almost as shaky as my stomach. I really wish bathroom vending machines included emotional armor along with tampons and sanitary napkins.
The condominium complex caters to corporate clients, and though it’s not designed for high rollers, it’s well maintained. I helped Mitch move into his fifth-floor apartment, which overlooks the swimming pool, but haven’t been back since.
“Does Mitch know we’re coming?” Dorothy asks for what I think is the fourth time as we ride up in the elevator.
“I called and texted saying that we need to talk,” I answer yet again. “He still hasn’t responded.”
“And if he’s not here?” she asks, her voice hushed as we step off the elevator.
“We’ll wait. Or I’ll go down and ask the manager for a key. I am on the lease. And as you pointed out, I’m his wife. Worst-case scenario, I ask the manager to text Mitch. Maybe that would get his attention.” My voice sounds less than matter-of-fact.
Outside his apartment, I raise one fist, but I can’t quite find the strength to knock.
If Dorothy weren’t standing beside me with her chin up and her eyes laser focused on the door, I might already be sprinting for the elevator. Instead, I knock briskly. I do not give in to the temptation to yell, “Police! Open up!”
Dorothy and I stare at the door for what feels like an eternity. I don’t think I’m the only one of us willing it to open while praying it stays closed.
I’m about to give up and find the office when the door opens.
Mitch stands in the opening. I wasn’t expecting him to throw his arms around me, but I wasn’t expecting the look of horror on his face, either.
I also wasn’t expecting the adorable little boy who has not only Mitch’s name but his face. And I sure as hell wasn’t expecting the beautiful and hugely pregnant woman standing next to him.
speech·less
ˈspēCHləs/
adjective
unable to speak, especially as the temporary result of shock or some strong emotion
Ex: “I am speechless at this proof of my husband’s infidelity.”
Erin
You know that thing people say about how when the going gets tough the tough get going? I always thought I was one of the tough ones; the kind of ordinary person who steps up in an emergency. That even though I’m small, I could tap into some sort of superhuman strength if I had to pull a stranger from a burning building or foil a kidnap attempt.
Now I think I’m way more wuss than Wonder Woman. Because ever since Josh called off our wedding, I’ve been lying in my childhood bed feeling sorry for myself.
Other than trying to tempt me with food and urging basic hygiene, my parents have mostly left me alone, believing I just need time.
The group chat that Katrina Hopkins, my best friend and maid of honor, set up the day, practically the minute, Josh and I got engaged pings constantly with validation and encouragement . . . You’re the best . . . he sucks . . . what a dick . . . drinks??? . . . wanna do brunch? . . . here if you need me . . . But I don’t have the energy to respond.