Chapter 2 The Pregnancy

(Lydia)

Tears spilled down my cheeks unbidden as I watched him walk away, arm-in-arm with the woman who stole him from me.

My heart was broken. I was left to pick up the shattered pieces of my once blissful life. My husband was a soulless stranger, the other half of my heart irretrievably lost. I could only pray that one day, the gaping wound he left will begin to heal over.

Until then, I would go through the motions, forcing myself to move forward into a harsh new reality.

A cold, unrelenting world where the warmth of Thomas's embrace was but a distant, rapidly fading memory.

***

I grew up in an abusive household: my father used to beat my mother and sister. I had tried to protect them as a child but as I grew older, I felt my mother’s resentment pierce through me. I had never been able to understand why.

During summer break after freshman year at Western, he had punched me in the face. I had packed up my bags and left, tears streaking the subway window that I had rested my head against.

“You’ll never make it on your own in this world!” he had yelled before I walked down the pavement from his house.

It was Thomas’s arms that I crashed into when I returned to Illinois. I was shaken and sobbed. He had shushed and soothed me. At that time, he’d been my boyfriend for three years. And he had held my tear streaked face in between his palms and told me that he would always love, revere, and be there for me.

When we’d graduated, Thomas had taken me home and told his mother that he was going to marry me. 

“If you’re going to be my daughter-in-law,” his mother had said to me through her exacting stare, “I want you to give up these silly performances.”

She had put a hand on my shoulder, a diamond glinting on her finger, and said, “You should befit the privilege of being the wife of my son.”

I had been happy to sacrifice my acting dream for Thomas. He meant the whole world to me.

We’d said “I do” on a lawn by a lake. The day had been sunny and perfect. Our wedding cake had fifteen layers. I had worn a strapless white gown covered in lace and with a train that stretched all the way to the aisle.

The princess-cut diamond shone on my finger. 

We’d flown to Paris on the very same day and spent the whole night moaning in ecstasy. His body had felt warm and comforting against mine.

I had climbed out onto the balcony the following day, still draped in sheets, and welcomed my new life with open arms.

Sarah had thrown us a welcome-back dinner when we’d returned to Denver. Thomas and I had barely touched our food, eager to return to the bedroom. And then I moved into his house. As Mrs. Lombardi, I had redecorated the mansion: all white and gold with crystal décor.

When Thomas had returned home to see this surprise, he had swooped me up into his arms. I had belly-laughed as he had said, “It’s beautiful but not quite as much as you,” and carried me back into our bedroom.

***

“Love, revere, and be there for you,” I murmured now, his voice echoing in my head. At the table, the apple pie and lasagna that I’d so lovingly cooked for him had gotten cold. I tried to get up from the floor so that I could put it away in the fridge. But, all of a sudden, I felt sick.

I ran towards the bathroom and lurched.

Oh, no, no, I thought, Please don’t be! I scrambled across my bedroom to the dresser drawer and hastily scoured for it. Tylenol … Cough drops … ah, there it was: the home pregnancy test.

I went inside the bathroom and waited. Two red stripes appeared on it in the hazy bathroom light. “That’s impossible!” I exclaimed, and fished for a second one from the box. Ten minutes later, it still showed two strips.

Third time’s the charm, I thought. But the results didn’t change.

***

“I would love to have a baby with you,” Thomas had said, nuzzling his nose against mine. “I want it to have your red locks,” he had tucked a stray strand behind my ear and leaned in to nibble my lip. 

We had been trying to conceive before the accident and had both been delighted at the idea of the pitter patter of tiny feet across the floor. But, month after month, like clockwork, my period had arrived.

And every time it did, Thomas would hold me close and I would breathe in his pheromones as I cried myself to sleep in his arms. Sometimes, I had suspected he was crying too.

My mother in law had once seen me red-eyed when she had come over for brunch the morning after.

“Oh, please,” she had murmured softly as she sipped a cup of black tea from my painted china teacup, “What could you possibly have to be upset about?”

I sniffled and turned away. She had only gone on to say, “Honey, you were a struggling actress with no future when my son rescued you from a lifetime of scrubbing tables. Everything that you have now is inordinately good for you.”

And, maybe, a small part of me had believed her.

***

Ahead of the mirror in my bathroom, I started to uncontrollably shake. I simply couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that I was about to bear my ex-husband’s child.

I had never been able to reconcile with how Thomas’s warm love could have so swiftly turned into spite and loathing. There would be no way he would ever accept the child as his own.

Imagining the words “not mine” spewing from his lips when he learned about my condition was enough to make me feel sick again.

I bent down double over the sink and retched. Slowly, bracing myself against the sink, I rose again.

I looked inquisitively at the girl in the mirror, wondering if she might have any answers for how I was supposed to handle this. And then my father’s last words to me echoed in my head, “You’ll never make it out there alone!”

I washed up and dried my face. It was time to stop crying.