The Dollhouse (25 page)

The low sound he made in the back of his throat was my only warning. He pulled his fingers pulled away and I moaned at the loss. But he'd only backed away enough to tear at the fly of his pants, ripping them open just enough that his erection could spring free. I got only the barest tantalizing glimpse before he lifted my legs and drove inside of me.

I screamed and bucked, from the pain of his fingers biting into the skin of my thighs as much as the exquisite pleasure of him battering my sensitive flesh.

His hot breath huffed against my ear. "You are mine. Your body, your heart, the baby inside of you. All of it is mine."

He punctuated each word with a ruthless thrust of his hips, driving hard enough into me that the pain nearly overwhelmed the pleasure. Nearly.

I had the irrational thought that the baby could feel him as well, that he would drive himself far enough inside of me to reach the very heart of the womb. That he would merge us so completely no force in the world could separate us.

I fell apart in his hands as I came in a shuddering, screaming orgasm.

And he followed close behind me, grunting softly as I felt a blooming wetness between my thighs.

Julian retreated almost immediately, tucking himself away as he put distance between us. I felt cold and alone, but swallowed the desperate plea forming on the tip of my tongue begging him to come back.

"This doesn't change anything," I whispered, not sure who I was trying to convince.

He already had the apartment door opened, but he turned in the opening. The dark and brooding look he cast me would have brought me to my knees if I wasn't so determined to steel myself against it.

"I take what's mine."

I shivered in the dark as his footsteps retreated down the hallway. Was he talking only about the baby or was he planning for more. Something told me that I would very soon find out.

M
iranda readily owned
up when I confronted her about contacting Julian. I couldn't even be mad at her. She thought she was doing the right thing. She didn't know what lay between us and I didn't have any intention of telling her.

When she asked how I'd found out, I just said he'd contacted me wanting to know what I planned to do. I kept out the part about him showing up to the apartment and fucking me against the wall.

I'd decided to have the baby and put it up for adoption. Having an abortion would have been both easier and harder, but I didn't want the baby to suffer because I couldn't stop myself from making every bad decision in the book. Julian wouldn’t be able to stop me without the risk that I’d go public about the exact nature of our relationship.

Dr. Stacey at the clinic had given me the information on a handful of adoption agencies. I'd left her office and called the first one on the list before I could talk myself out of it. The woman on the phone had been nice enough and offered to send me information on some perspective families.

Of course, having the baby meant telling Momma that I was pregnant. The conversation had gone about as well as I'd expected, but not much worse.

She'd gotten angry and yelled, which quickly turned into crying and blaming herself. If only she'd
been
there for me and kept a better watch on what I was doing, none of this would have happened. I let her throw herself a pity party for a few hours before cutting her off. Crying won't change it, let's move on.

Momma seemed to have accepted things for now, but I occasionally caught her looking at me in a way that she never had before. It maybe should have made me feel bad, but I resolved to just ignore it. Just because she'd finally realized I was a grownup making fucked-up grownup decisions didn't mean I hadn't made that transition a long time ago.

Telling Zach was the hardest thing that I had to do. He'd looked so hurt and taken it so personally that it had temporarily cracked the wall I'd erected around my heart.

"Whose baby is it?" he asked, voice breaking only slightly.

I had sighed, not really wanting to hurt him or have this conversation. "It doesn't matter."

"I still want to be with you."

That would have broken my heart, if I still let myself have a heart to break. Instead, I just felt this overwhelming sense of exhaustion and desire to be left alone.

"That's not a good idea," I said.

"Dalea..."

He looked so crestfallen that I almost gave in. Almost. "Just go, Zach. This isn't going to work."

"I know you're really confused and scared right now, but we can still make this work. I want to wait for you."

He forced me to be cruel, to say something that would send him far enough away that neither of us would be in danger of getting hurt more than we already were.

"I don't want you and I won't ever want you. Stop making a fool of yourself and just go."

That had made him angry enough to say all of the things that he should have said in the beginning. That I was ungrateful, a bitch and a slut, that I didn't deserve him and I probably wouldn't ever be happy.

He wasn't wrong, but that didn't stop me from letting him walk away.

I'd expected to hear from Julian or his lawyers, some sort of injunction or lawsuit, something to keep me from giving the baby away, but weeks past and nothing came.

Maybe my threats to out him to the press had been effective or maybe he'd finally realized that I wasn't worth the hassle. If he wanted a baby that badly, he could have hundreds of women lined up outside his door in matter of minutes.

He didn't need me.

That was the realization that probably hurt the worst. I knew that I was disposable — a willing body and a naturally submissive demeanor. There wasn't anything that I had to offer him besides that.

Maybe that was why he couldn't love me.

The dossiers on perspective adoptive parents arrived on my doorstep delivered by courier service. The leather binder they came in was heavy and when fully opened took up nearly the entirety of the small coffee table in my living room.

Momma had looked over it with me, either truly interested or perceptive enough to convincingly feign interest. She'd never asked me if I considered keeping the baby and raising it myself. I'm sure she knew that the first thing I'd ask was how that had worked out for her.

I spent a few weeks flipping through the book. Eager couples, desperate for a baby to adopt, had provided pictures, biographies and hand-written statements trying to convince desperate mothers to give up their unborn children.

I couldn't decide if it was sad or not, the desperation that seemed to literally emanate from the pages like rancid perfume. Who was more deserving of pity, the women who couldn't have kids but wanted to or the ones who could but desperately wanted to avoid it?

It was difficult to say. I could only manage what it felt like to pour over old photographs in order to select just the right ones to showcase your perfect life. Eke out cloying descriptions of your beautiful home and amazing plans, just waiting for the one addition that would secure the American dream. All of it to fool some pregnant idiot who didn't have enough sense to keep her legs closed into liking you the most.

I'd automatically discarded the candidates who were significantly wealthy. The glimpse that I'd had into that life had done nothing to endear me to the super rich. My child wasn't a trophy.

One couple had stood out to me from the rest. They were Hispanic, second-generation immigrants from Venezuela, very different from the dozens of WASPS in polo shirts and pearls that decorated the rest of the pages. The description they provided painted the picture of a home life that was modest but well-maintained, more than adequate without being too much.

And they wanted a closed adoption, same as me. If I was giving up my baby, it wouldn't be mine anymore. I wanted that to be very clear from the beginning, with no chance to take it back later. I didn't know if I could go through with it otherwise.

It was hard to admit how much time I'd spent at war with myself.

I wanted to keep the baby. Even admitting it only to myself sent a pang of sadness through me that nearly brought me to my knees. Because what kind of life could I offer a child? It would get to grow up as the fifth body in a two bedroom apartment, living an existence that was already barely survivable, last in a long line of people who couldn't get their shit together.

Even Julian with his icicle of heart would be better than that. At least with him, the thing wouldn't miss any meals.

I'd been very careful with pronouns, even in my own head — baby, thing, it — doing everything I could to keep myself from seeing the life growing inside of me as anything but a parasite.

I already knew how much love was worth.

I was four months along when I went for a home visit with the adoptive parents that I had chosen. Mr and Mrs. Velasquez. He was construction worker and she was a nurse. They lived in a two-story house in one of the northern suburbs.

It wasn't that far from the Dollhouse I realized on the ride over. The thought had me in a hysterical mix of laughter and tears. I wiped my eyes and forced myself to calm down as the cab dropped me off in their driveway.

They were both waiting for me on the porch, the door to their house open behind them. It reminded me of a scene from some 60's sitcom, only she was wearing slacks and a button-up shirt instead of an apron and hoop skirt, and he had a farmer's tan. The image still stuck and I imagined myself waving jauntily as the credits rolled on another day exactly like all of the rest.

Mr. Velasquez paid the cab driver and left a generous tip. I immediately liked that about him. He still remembered what it was like to work at the whim of your customer.

They ushered me into a house that was bright, clean and mundane, like I’d always imagine my ideal would be. The couch was good quality, but just a little worn, and a hand-crocheted afghan was thrown over the back.

Pictures of them decorated the walls, vacation poses in front of national landmarks and a set of wedding photos done in black and white. Ms. Velasquez (please call me Kathy) handed me a glass of lemonade that felt ice cold in my hand as they sat across from me on a set of dining chairs, keeping a careful distance.

I asked all of the questions that I was supposed to ask.

"How long have you been together?"

High school sweethearts — in love since day one and going strong for almost a decade.

"Any other kids?"

No — side glances and downcast eyes with only the slightest glimmer of hopeful entreaty when their gazes met mine. One of them can't have kids, although they're not sure which. They refused to let the doctor tell them. A few failed rounds of hormone shots and in vitro didn't take. Adoption was there last chance.

"What makes you think you'd be good parents?"

I tuned out their answer because the eager joy on their faces was enough of an answer in itself.

Though I couldn't help but wonder why they had waited so long to choose adoption. I shook the thought away. They were exactly what I was looking for, exactly the kind of family that I would have created if I'd had the chance. They were perfect.

They were
too
perfect.

I examined the room as call-me-Kathy bubbled on about her job on a neonatal intensive care unit and how all she wanted was to have her own child to care for with the same love she devoted to her work.

There was something off about the room, I realized distantly. It felt lived-in with the old couch and comfy afghan, but also sterile in a way that I couldn't quite place. And then I realized something as I looked at the line of vacation photos that lined the wall behind them.

Her hair was the same in every photograph, just barely cresting her shoulder, parted to the side and tucked behind her ear. What woman didn't change her hair — not growing it long or cutting it short — for ten years.

And then there was the fireplace, with its mantel covered in knickknacks and collectibles. A stack of wood in a neat pile sat to one side and a tool set with a poker, broom and shovel was on the other. Neither of them looked like they'd ever been used. The inside of the fireplace was brutally clean with no hint of ash in the bottom or streaks of soot on the brick sides.

Maybe she had just cleaned it, I thought. And dusted with the vengeance of an avenging angel. I dragged my finger across the coffee table and it came away perfectly clean. The glass fronts of the picture frames were perfectly clear without even a speck of dust.

And the drapes on the front windows where the sun shined blisteringly bright were the exact same shade as the ones on the side windows, with no hint of fading.

Something wasn't right.

"May I see the rest of the house?"

They seemed hesitant for the first time, exchanging a glance with each other that was so brief that I almost missed it.

I didn't wait for permission.

They weren't fast enough to stop me as I rocketed off of the couch and took the stairs two at a time to the second floor. I pushed open the door closest to the top of the stairs.

It must have been the master bedroom because I could see another door on the far side that opened to a small bathroom. It was as bright as the rest of the house and completely empty.

I tried the next room, a smaller bedroom. Also empty. Every room of the upstairs was completely empty.

They had caught up with me at this point and stopped just close enough to be out of reach, as if if they wanted to stop me but were afraid to come too close.

"What is this?" I asked, angry and resigned.

Meaningless excuses and obvious fallacies came and went. They had just moved in. They were remodeling. They had just painted and new furniture would be arriving soon.

"What is this?" I asked again, harsher this time.

They didn't answer, looking at me and at each other as if the right answer would suddenly materialize in the air between us on its own.

"Do you work for him?"

I saw the truth on their faces, Julian had somehow arranged this, all of it — this perfect couple, the perfect house, my freedom to make my own decisions. All of it had been a lie.

Not that it mattered, but I wondered where the lie had started. Were all of the potential couples fake or had he only needed to fabricate this one, because he knew me well enough to know which I would choose. Was the adoption agency in on it the whole time? Was my doctor?

Would I ever have anything that was outside of his control?

They called me a cab and I waited for it on the front porch. Mr. Velasquez offered me money to get home but I turned it down. I wasn't going home, not yet.

If the cab driver noticed anything odd about my stricken expression or red-rimmed eyes, he wisely chose to ignore it.

"Where to?" he asked, eyes briefly meeting mine in the reflection of the rearview mirror.

"Berkmore Global.”

* * *

I
t didn't occur
to me that I might have a hard time getting into the building. I was in that type of headspace where the goal became more important than any obstacle that might stand in the way.