Hush Little Baby (13 page)

And just like that, my time is up.

31

I
leave the office grateful for the distraction from my life.

Sherman lives in the wealthy suburbs of Anaheim Hills, in a neighborhood of expansive lawns and marble porticos, regal houses standing in dignified repose from the street and their neighbors.

I follow a friendly nurse to the master bedroom. The room is the size of an apartment, with deep sculptured cornices and heavy swags of drapery over arched windows that open to a miniature Garden of Versailles.

Sherman sits in a damask Queen Anne chair that looks uncomfortable. I take the more demure seat next to him and set the sheath of lawyer-ese on the table between us.

Harris is panicked that Sherman’s going to end-run us, but I’m unconcerned.

This man has no reason to do that. He’ll sign away his life’s work, donate the money wherever he believes it will do the most good, deprive his children of what they will see as their birthright, and he will die, if not in peace, then at least with the same mettle with which he lived.

We fill the air with a few minutes’ preamble, and when we’re both bored, I ask, “Have they visited?”

“Each one, every day. Haven’t seen them this much ever. Vultures, the lot of them, circling and counting the minutes until I croak.”

He smiles.

“But their visits make you happy?”

“They’re all I have.”

I think about my own small tribe—Addie, Drew, my mom, my dad—so little tethers us to this earth.

“Reconsidering?” I ask, hoping he is.

His smile widens. “Wouldn’t that make your life and Harris’s life easier?”

I shift my eyes to the mountain of papers Sherman needs to sign. “It would make your life easier as well.”

“Nope. Not reconsidering. Time for the fledglings to fly.”

In the last year, I’ve met Sherman’s boys; none resemble their father in the least.

“Or to fall to a macabre death,” I say.

“They won’t.” The terse tone unsuccessfully masks his doubt.

From the side table, I pick up the book that’s facedown,
Death in the Afternoon
, by Ernest Hemingway. Morbidly appropriate.

I’m uncertain what compels me, perhaps it’s the peacefulness of the moment, or maybe it’s because I’m in no hurry to return to the calamity of my life, or maybe it’s the way Sherman looks at me, but I settle in my chair and begin to read aloud.

When Sherman’s breath settles into sleep, I show myself out.

32

B
y the time I return to the office it’s close to seven, and everyone’s gone for the night. I sit and stare blindly at the heap of work on my desk, amazed at how inconsequential it’s all become.

I lay my head on my arms and watch the shadows grow long on the carpet until they disappear, leaving only the fluorescent glare. My thoughts spin and go nowhere.

Soft tapping on the door lifts my head.

Jeffrey’s Snoopy smirk fills his face.

“You look like you swallowed a mouse,” I say.

“Come with me.”

I tilt my head with skepticism as my heart picks up its pace, and I realize how happy I am to see him and how desperately lonely I’ve been, not only for the past two days but for the past year, and the eight years before that.

To anyone looking from the outside, it would seem like I’m racing into things with Jeffrey, when in truth, I’ve been denying my heart and waiting for years.

“Come on,” he says, almost jumping in place, causing me to smile for the first time all day.

I follow him through the barren labyrinth of cubicles to the glowing conference room. Three large sheets paper the far wall, and as I get closer, I recognize them as renderings of the new Compton Middle School.

My eyes squint, then widen.

“Approved,” he says, his smirk beaming. And in his excitement, I glimpse the boy he must have been when he was young—sweet, rambunctious, and a little goofy—the kind of kid who probably ran for class president and was elected treasurer.

I step closer.

The facade is identical to Kelly’s earlier drawings with the exception of the small squares at the intersections of the larger ones, which are now reflective.

“Windows?” I ask, pointing.

He nods. “Too small to crawl through. The panes slide into the walls to open.”

I run my hand over the lines. The elevations depict a Mondrian masterpiece in three dimensions, and the new random perforations create a depth that’s mystifying.

“Your idea?”

He shrugs humbly. “Kelly made it sing.”

I tremble knowing I’m witnessing something great. I can already see the publications and awards. In a single master stroke, Harris Development is going to become the frontrunner of educational architecture firms.

Jeffrey’s beside me. Then we’re looking at each other and smiling.

It’s uncertain if I move first, or maybe he does, but I’m in his arms, his tongue diving into my mouth, his left hand twining into my hair, his right pressing against the small of my back as he pulls me to him.

We’re against the conference table, then he’s lifting me onto it.

I unbutton his shirt, and he studies me as I work, his eyes drinking me in with desire as his muscles tick and tremble.

“I missed you,” he rasps, his hands inching my skirt up my hips, then my shirt is being opened, his hands running up and down my sides.

The conference room phone crashes to the floor as I dig my fingers into his chest and bury my face in the soft indent below his ear. I inch my hands down his waist, my fingers burning against his skin.

He pushes me farther onto the table and peels off my skirt and my panties, his eyes never leaving me.

The moon through the window crazes our bare skin blue as his tongue traces my jaw, the curve below my breast, the inside of my thighs.

He hesitates.

“Don’t stop,” I say, fully aware of what I’m doing.

It’s all the encouragement he needs.

His hands roam with his lips. They run down my ribs, push my hair from my face, surveying my body like a blind man, tracing every curve and dimple.

I feel his restraint, his struggle to be gentle, his concern not to scare me. And when we come together, it’s so fully, I want to cry out, and in that instant, I know he’s waited. For a year, he waited for me to return.

*  *  *

My head is on his chest as his hand caresses my shoulder. We’re mostly dressed except for our shirts, and we sit together in one of the chairs. Through the plate glass window, the sprawl of Orange County stretches below, lights and shadowed silhouettes of the business district for as far as I can see. It’s strange to be sitting here in his arms without the frantic rush of knowing I need to get home, to make an excuse to my parents or Gordon for where I am, without a litany of domestic responsibilities piling up with each passing moment running through my head. I have nowhere to go, there’s no one waiting on me, waiting for me.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he says.

I realize I’m a world away—my mind running through what Addie and Drew are doing right now without me. Drew struggling through his homework, Addie taking her bath. I wonder what they had for dinner, whether Addie tried to hide whatever was green on her plate in her pockets. Will Gordon remember to give Drew his Lactaid with his milk? Will he read a story to Addie before she goes to sleep? Maybe Claudia will. Gordon works tonight. She’s probably there. She’s probably taken over right where I’ve left off. I wonder if they’ve even noticed I’m gone. It’s been two days. Do they miss me?

“Jill?”

“Hmmm?”

“Thinking about the kids?”

I nod against his chest, then lift up to look at him.

“I’m going to lose them,” I say, and the emotions choke in the back of my throat.

He kisses my forehead. “You’re not going to lose them. You’re getting a divorce. People get divorced all the time. At first it might be a little rough, but then it’ll work itself out, and you and Gordon will figure out a way to deal with it.”

There’s such hope in his eyes. He sees a future, a time when he and I will be together and the kids will be a part of that, visiting us on the weekends or going back to Gordon on those days, a perfect twenty-first-century blended-family scenario.

A year ago, I told him that’s what was going to happen.

“Why’d you go back?” he asks, the question soft but laced with accusation.

“You don’t have kids,” I say. “You can’t understand. I knew then what I know now. If I left, I’d lose them. I thought I could control it. That if I went back and did better, Gordon wouldn’t hurt me, and I’d be there to protect them.”

“You’re not going to lose them,” he repeats.

His statement is a challenge, and I love him for it, but I also know he’s wrong.

“I need to tell you something, but I also need you to just listen and not fly off the handle.”

His caresses get less gentle, and his embrace more firm.

“Please, Jeffrey, promise me you’ll just listen and let me figure this out.”

Reluctantly he nods.

I rest my head back against his chest so I don’t need to face him, then tell him about last night’s arrest after he dropped me at Connor’s after our date.

“He what?”

Jeffrey bolts upright, almost sending me to the ground from his lap.

“You weren’t drunk. You didn’t even finish your second glass of wine. I drove you home. That son of a bitch.”

I put my fingers to his lips to try to quiet him.

“So you see,” I say into his raving eyes, “it’s not going to be okay, or simple, or easy. Gordon isn’t going to come around and say, ‘Gee, Jill, you’re right. Let’s play nice and share.’ And he’s going to win, and I’m going to lose them.”

And he’s going to kill me.
I don’t add this, because Jeffrey’s already shaking with rage.

Jeffrey settles back into his seat, but his nose still flares with his breaths.

“He can’t do this.”

He already has.

33

I
wake up full and empty. Jeffrey’s scent lingers on my skin while Gordon’s plot to eliminate me burrows in the core of my brain like some kind of weevil.

If I’m pregnant, I have nine months. If I’m not, I have until it’s obvious I’m not. Everything else is irrelevant—work, money, what the world thinks.

I dress in jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt, and pull one of Connor’s Stanford sweatshirts over the top.

“Good morning,” I say to Connor, who sits at the table eating a croissant. I reach for the box to help myself to the remaining one.

“Good might be a stretch,” he answers, and hands me a folded over newspaper.

Featured in the
Orange County Register
’s blotter is my recent arrest for driving while intoxicated and child endangerment.
Jillian Kane, 40, of Laguna Beach was charged with driving under the influence of alcohol and endangering the life and health of her children…

I drop the croissant back in the box, no longer hungry.

*  *  *

I’m on my way to Compton to meet Jeffrey at the new middle school. It’s Saturday and the site will be empty other than the two of us—we wanted to be alone to visualize the future as the sun rises—a romantic notion that seems a little silly now, but that also makes my skin tingle like a schoolgirl.

As I drive, I listen to my messages. Two are from Tina about urgent matters that no longer hold any urgency for me, the third is from Jeffrey. The message was left an hour after we parted. It’s brief and full of optimism, and as I listen to it, a clear stream of fear pools from my throat to my stomach.

“Hello, beautiful.” His voice is giddy. “I miss you already. Just wanted you to know, things are going to be okay. After you left, I called Gordon…” My heart freezes. “…I told him he was being an ass. At first he was pretty harsh, but we hashed it out, and finally he came around…” Gordon never comes around, never, on anything. “He agreed he was just pissed off and that keeping the kids from you isn’t right. He’s going to back off, even said he’d talk to the Laguna police about dropping the DUI.” My body shakes with my pulse. “I told you, babe, it’s all going to work out. I can’t wait to see you, and I know it’s too soon, but I’m going to say it anyway. I love you. I love you so much.”

I click the phone off and press the accelerator to the floor, praying my panic is paranoia and that Jeffrey’s right and things are going to be okay. Half my drive is in the rearview mirror as I watch for Gordon. In front of me is the interchange for the 55. If I exit, I’ll be heading toward Riverside, then Palm Springs, then Las Vegas. I could cash out my 401(k) and live for a year.

Addie and Drew, Addie and Drew, Addie and Drew.
How is it I’ve become such a coward, that my first thought is self-preservation before I think of them? I am an awful person, an awful mother. My heart pounds with fear and self-loathing. Please let me be wrong, let Jeffrey be right.
I told you, babe, it’s all going to work out.

My view shifts back to the mirror, trying to discern if the headlights behind me are Gordon’s. In the frame of the mirror, I see the memory of Drew’s forehead and eyes watching me as I drive, and my insincere words from two nights ago drum in my head.
I’ll be back. I’m not going to leave you.

The car in the mirror signals to exit, and as it passes, I see that it’s a Honda, not a Porsche. I breathe and continue moving toward Jeffrey.

*  *  *

I walk across the dirt parking lot toward the new school’s bones, which rise like an acropolis from the ruins around it. As the clouds close rank, the dawn darkens, causing the temperature to drop. I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my sweatshirt.

A pigeon or a crow flies lazily overhead with no particular destination, full from the night of feeding on the litter of Compton.

It’s been only ten hours since I left Jeffrey’s arms, yet it feels like a thousand years since we agreed to meet before dawn.

I take one last glance behind me to be sure Gordon hasn’t followed, then unlock the padlock and walk through the eight-foot fence. I relock the gate and breathe, unconcerned now that I’m within the secure site.