CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Olivia
“LIV, WHERE ARE YOU? FLIGHTS ARE canceled for the rest of the day and maybe tomorrow. I’m still at home. Love you.”
I press a button to erase the message. Early evening light slants between the curtains of the bedroom. The afternoon has passed in a slow, torpid haze of devastation.
A knock sounds on the door. I push my hair away from my face and school my features into a calm expression as I go to answer it. Joanna is standing in the corridor, a phone in her hand.
“Oh, you’re here, Liv.” Her gaze skims over me as she extends the phone. “Dean is on the phone. He said he couldn’t reach you on your cell.”
“Thanks. I… I’m sorry, I have a migraine.” I start to take the phone from her, then realize I’ll have to return it after speaking to Dean. “Um, could you please tell Dean I’ll call him right back on my cell?”
Joanna puts the phone to her ear as she heads back downstairs. I close the door, press the speed-dial button, and sit on the edge of the bed.
I can’t tell Dean over the phone. I can’t risk him panicking and trying to get back here in the middle of a blizzard. I take a few breaths as the phone rings.
“Liv?”
“Hi.”
“Where’ve you been? I left three messages.”
“Sorry. My phone was off, and I… I left it in the bedroom by mistake.”
“Oh. What’d you do today?”
My chest aches. “Um, just some shopping. Started another book. So no flights today or tomorrow?”
“Not sure about tomorrow yet. I might be able to catch an evening flight or a red-eye if they get the roads cleared. Problem is that the storm moved into Chicago, so that messed up all the connections.” He sighs. “Anyway, it might be Thursday at the latest. I miss the hell out of you.”
“I miss you too.”
He lowers his voice an octave. “Want to tell me how much?”
A laugh chokes my throat. Oh, Dean.
“Actually, I… I have a little bit of a headache right now, and I’m kind of tired.”
“You didn’t overdo it, did you?”
“No, no. Just tired. I’m going to turn in early.” I struggle to put some lightness in my tone. “You’re on your own tonight, professor.”
“You’ll be in my dreams, beauty.”
I say goodbye and end the call before realizing I didn’t tell him I love him. I return a message from the hospital nurse. She tells me the blood test confirmed the miscarriage and that she’ll send the report to Dr. Nolan. Then I call Dr. Nolan to explain what happened and listen as she expresses her sympathies and gives me similar instructions to the ones I received in the emergency room.
I turn off the phone and go to take a shower. I close my eyes against the hot spray, not wanting to see the red swirls going down the drain. Then I pull on my nightgown, affix a maxi-pad to my underwear, and crawl into bed.
My sleep is broken, blistered with ugly thoughts, my abdomen twisting with cramps. I can’t stop the questions running like a speed train through my head.
What happened? What did I do wrong? Did I cause this? I wasn’t even sure I wanted a baby, so am I being punished now? Why? Why? Why?
Finally I manage to sleep a little toward dawn, then climb out of bed to take more ibuprofen and use the bathroom. As I’m sitting on the toilet, a huge clot slides out of me.
I grasp the edge of the bathroom counter, shivers erupting all over my skin. I wait a few minutes to calm down before risking a glance in the water.
My stomach seizes. Tears spill over. I fumble to flush the toilet, trying to make it quick, closing my eyes until the tank refills.
Breathe, Liv. That had to be the worst of it.
I fall back into bed and try to sleep through the pain. A few hours later, the cramps subside to the point where I can move. I force myself to dress and go downstairs, thinking Joanna must be wondering what happened to me.
Archer, however, is the only one in the kitchen. He’s making himself a sandwich. I realize it’s almost noon.
“She went shopping,” he says, when I ask about his mother. “Are you… uh, okay?”
I nod, simply because there is nothing else I can do.
“You want anything to eat?” Archer asks.
“Not really.”
“Should probably have something.” He puts a slice of bread in the toaster, then drops a teabag into a mug and heats it in the microwave.
I thank him as he puts a plate of toast and the tea in front of me. He takes a soda from the fridge and sits down with his sandwich.
“You… you haven’t asked me what happened,” I say, after managing to eat a small bite of toast.
He shrugs. “Figure it’s none of my business.”
We’re both silent. He eats the sandwich. I take a few sips of tea and try to eat more toast. Part of me wants to go back upstairs and cry again, but another part of me doesn’t want to be alone with my jagged thoughts.
“So, Dean says you were in LA,” I remark.
“Yeah. Did some work down there.”
“I lived in West Hollywood for a while when I was a kid.” I take another sip of tea. “My mother was trying to get some acting jobs.”
“I had a girlfriend who wanted to act. She never got anywhere.”
“Neither did my mother. She was in a cereal commercial when she was five, but she had a tough time after that.”
“She still there?” he asks.
“I don’t know where she is.” The words are already out before I realize I just told him the truth.
“You ever try to find out?” he asks.
“No. We had a tough relationship. I wouldn’t even know where to start looking for her.” I study him for a moment. “What kind of work were you doing?”
“Installing hardwood floors.” He takes a bite of his sandwich and speaks around the mouthful. “Not very fancy.”
“I work at a bookstore. A job doesn’t have to be fancy to be satisfying.”
He tilts his head in acknowledgment. We sit for a few minutes before I push away from the table and put my cup and plate in the sink. “Thanks for the tea and… and your help.”
I go back upstairs and crawl into bed. I stay there for the rest of the day as the cramps and heavy bleeding continue. I try to read, but mostly I just doze since in that twilight sleep I can’t think too much.
It’s evening when I hear Dean’s deep voice coming from the foyer.
My heart almost stops. I pick up my cell phone, which I haven’t turned on since the previous night. There are a few voicemails from him.
“They got the roads cleared, so I’m at the airport. Looks like I can catch a flight to Minneapolis, then Denver so I don’t have to go through Chicago. Should be in San Jose by late afternoon if there are no delays.”
Anxiety claws at me. I hurry to pull the tangled sheets and comforter back over the bed, straighten up the pillows and my discarded clothes. I go into the bathroom and splash water on my face, brush my hair and fasten it into a ponytail, put on some powder and lipstick. I throw a few tissues into the wastebasket to cover the wadded-up, bloody pads.
I leave the bathroom just as there’s a knock on the bedroom door.
The doorknob rattles and turns.
I grab hold of the bedpost and sink onto the edge of the bed.
The door opens, and he walks in—all rumpled from travel in wrinkled jeans and a rugby shirt, his face roughened with stubble, his thick hair disheveled. Lines of fatigue and stress mark his face, but his beautiful, gold-flecked eyes brighten at the sight of me.
“Ah, beauty, am I glad to see you.” He smiles and starts toward me, his arms outstretched, expecting me to run and leap right into them.
Halfway to the bed, he stops. I can’t breathe.
“Liv?”
I clutch the bedpost. My heart is beating too fast. The panic encroaches, a heavy, suffocating cloud squeezing the air from my lungs.
“Liv!”
Then he’s in front of me, gripping my shoulders, his eyes dark with concern. “You look… Liv, sweetie, breathe. You’re okay. Deep breath in, exhale on the count of five.”
I close my eyes so I won’t have to look at him. I battle back the panic and force my heartbeat to slow. His voice is steady, the reassuring tone a comfort to my aching soul.
Finally I open my eyes. He’s watching me, confused and suddenly wary.
“Liv, what’s wrong?”
“Dean, I… in the…” The tears come fast, swamping my chest, spilling in a flood. I press my hands to my eyes and try to stem the tide.
“What?” Alarmed, he digs his fingers into my shoulders. “What is it?”
I can’t look at him. Sobs tear at my throat.
“Liv!” He shakes me. “What the… oh, Jesus. What happened? Liv?”
He shakes me again, harder. I gulp in a breath and try to speak.
“Yesterday I was in the… in the bathroom. There was blood. On my underwear.”
All the color drains from his face. “No.”
I swipe at my eyes. “I didn’t… I mean, I felt fine, and I just went in to use the bathroom and… and…”
“How much?” He’s holding my shoulders so hard it hurts. “How much blood was there?”
“A f-few stains, at first. I called Dr. N-Nolan and she told me to wait and see if it… if it worsened, but I was scared so I went to the emergency room.”
He stares at me.
“I… I miscarried, Dean.” I force out the stark, bitter truth. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.”
“You… oh, God.” He releases me and sinks onto his knees. “No.”
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. “It… the doctor said it might have happened a week ago, but is just now… expelling.”
“Expelling?” His voice is strangled.
“There’s been… a lot of bleeding. The blood test confirmed it. I lost our baby.”
“No.” He bolts to his feet, his fists tightening.
“Dean—”
“Yesterday? This happened yesterday?”
“Early afternoon.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He paces to the other side of the room. “We talked last night, and you… you went there all alone, to the hospital, you didn’t have anyone… what the fuck, Liv?”
“What was I supposed to do?” I cry, wiping my eyes again. “You couldn’t have done anything except worry, and I couldn’t tell your mother or sister I was miscarrying when they didn’t even know I was pregnant!”
“You… you were all alone, when you… goddammit.” He slams his fist into the wall, smashing the plaster. A picture crashes to the floor. The glass shatters over the carpet.
“I wasn’t… Archer drove me to the hospital when…”
My voice dies when Dean pivots to stare at me.
“Archer?”
“He saw me when I was leaving to go to the hospital, and he… he knew something was wrong so he… Dean!”
He stalks out the door, his footsteps ringing on the stairs. My heart leaps. I hurry after him.
“Dean, it’s not…”
The front door slams open. Archer is outside, shooting hoops in the driveway. He stops at the sight of Dean striding toward him. Before I can reach them, Dean gives Archer a shove that sends his brother stumbling backward.
“What did you do?” Dean snaps. “What did you fucking say to her?”
“What the hell?” Archer backs away, his hands up in defense as his gaze flies from Dean to me.
“Dean, stop it!” I grab his arm, tears blinding me as memories of that horrible day five years ago come flooding back. “He didn’t do anything. He helped me.”
And that, I realize suddenly, is exactly what has enraged my husband.
“Christ.” Archer stares at his brother. “I know I’m a fuck-up, but I’d never—”
“It’s… it’s nothing.” I tighten my hand on Dean’s arm. “Just a… a misunderstanding.”
Dean’s muscles are rock-hard beneath my grip. His fists clench and unclench. I pull on his arm, trying to get him back to the house.
“He knew you were having a miscarriage.” A vein throbs in Dean’s temple.
“No.” My throat aches. “He didn’t know.”
Archer lowers his hands. “I didn’t know.”
“Dean, please.”
His eyes still blaze at his brother, but he lets me pull him back to the house. I have a sudden fear that Joanna or Paige West might have seen this incident, but neither woman appears to be home. I manage to get us both back upstairs, fresh tears overflowing.
“He just drove me to the hospital.” I sink onto the bed and cover my face with my hands. “I couldn’t…couldn’t drive myself because I was so upset. He waited to drive me back to the house too. I didn’t tell him anything. He didn’t ask. He was… he made me a cup of tea and some toast.”
For some reason, that memory makes me cry harder. I can feel Dean’s anger, coursing through him like lava. Anger at himself for not being here. And a misdirected anger that his brother was.
“Liv.” Dean is in front of me again, grasping my wrists, moving my hands away from my face. “Liv… I’m sorry. So fucking sorry. I… I never should have left you. I don’t know what I was thinking, leaving you alone when you—”
His voice breaks. He hauls me into his arms, pressing his face into my hair, his body shaking. I wrap my arms around him and hold him tightly, the warm strength of his chest crushed to mine, the heat of him flowing into me.
His sheer solidity and presence is a balm, easing some of the wrenching ache. Slowly my sobs begin to calm. I tuck my face against his neck and breathe in the familiar scent of him.
He eases back to look at me, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with anguish. He brushes my hair away from my face.
“I’m so sorry,” he repeats. “Are you all right? Did they check everything?”
I nod. “It’s… the doctor said sometimes women need D and Cs if things don’t… progress, but… I’m pretty sure I’m expel… uh, losing everything.”
He swears and pushes off the bed. He stalks to the window, his feet crunching against the broken glass of the picture.
My heart shrivels. I can see his hard-edged guilt and grief, an agony made all the blacker by the shadows of his past. By the heartbreaking knowledge that he wanted this child.
Tears flood my eyes again.
Will he blame me? Especially since I once told him I didn’t even want to have children?
“Did you talk to Dr. Nolan?” he asks.
“I called her yesterday when it started, then again after I got back from the hospital.”
When I see his jaw tense, I wish I hadn’t mentioned the hospital. He picks up my phone from the nightstand.
“Dr. Nolan’s office is closed by now,” I say.
“I don’t care.” He scrolls for her number, then demands that the answering service patch him through to the doctor. Once she’s on the phone, he assails her with questions about miscarriages, treatments, and follow-up.
Half an hour later, he finally hangs up the phone. I can’t help noticing he did not ask the doctor when it would be safe for us to try again to conceive.
“Okay.” He drags his hands over his face. “I’m going to take a shower. My mother seems to think you have a migraine, so we’ll leave it at that. Then I’m going to get things settled with my father and get our tickets back to Mirror Lake.”
“It doesn’t matter if I’m here or there, Dean.”
“It matters to me,” he says, striding to the bathroom. “I don’t want you to stay here anymore. We’re going home as soon as we can.”
Home.
He shuts the bathroom door behind him. A few seconds later, the shower starts. I wipe away my tears and go to clean up the broken picture on the floor.
As I’m dropping the bits of glass into the trash, I remember what had begun to alleviate my doubts. Why I was starting to anticipate the idea of having a child and raising him or her in Mirror Lake.
A faint hope surfaces. Dean comes out of the bathroom, dressed in boxers and still drying his chest with a towel. I wait until he’s pulled on a pair of jeans before I ask.
“Dean, at the university meeting… did you get it?”
He yanks on a shirt, his muscles knotted. “What?”
“Tenure.”
He turns to look at me. “Tenure?”
“Isn’t that why you went back?” I run my hands over my thighs. “I thought maybe that was the reason for the meeting, given that it was so sudden and important. Didn’t your department want to offer you early tenure?”
He just stares at me. Something flickers in his eyes. I can’t read what it is.
“Dean?”
“You…” He clears his throat. “You thought I went back because the department wanted to offer me early tenure?”
I nod. “And I thought you didn’t tell me because you wanted it to be a surprise.”
All the strength seems to go out of him as his shoulders drop.
“No,” he mutters. “I didn’t get tenure.”
“You turned it down?”
He lifts his head again to look at me. For a moment he seems stunned, as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing or hearing.
“Liv, they didn’t offer me tenure.”
“Oh.” I’d convinced myself so completely that was the reason for the meeting that I can’t quite process his statement. “Well, why not?”
“Liv, you really believed they wanted to give me tenure?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t they, with your reputation and the success of the Medieval Studies program? Not to mention the IHR grant. They’d be fools not to lock you permanently onto their faculty as soon as they can.”
He’s still looking at me with that disbelieving expression. I don’t understand. He knows how good he is.
Suddenly he crosses to me in three long strides and hauls me into his arms again, lifting me clear off the floor. He crushes his mouth against mine in a kiss that warms the icy places inside me.
“I don’t deserve you,” he says.
“Dean, stop.”
“I don’t.” He pulls away from me, dragging a hand through his hair. “I never have. I went after you because I was selfish and greedy and I wanted you so fucking badly. To anyone else, it would look different, right? It would look like I saved you.”
“You did save me.”
“No, I didn’t! You didn’t need saving, Liv. I was the one who was fucked-up, the insecure bastard who couldn’t make a move without trying to impress someone, to always be the goddamn best. You were the only person who didn’t give a shit what I did… you just cared about who I was. And the only time I should be at my best is when I’m with you.”
“I’m…” My heart constricts. “It’s the same with me, Dean. That’s what it’s about, right? We’re at our best together.”
“Then why the fuck do I keep failing you?”
“You don’t! I wouldn’t be with you if I thought you were failing me.”
I step toward him. He retreats. I stop.
The air is fraught with tension, unease, guilt. And something else, something I don’t understand and can’t identify.
He looks away, his expression shuttered. I move forward, cautiously, and put my hand on his chest. His heartbeat thumps hard and fast against my palm.
“I’m sorry,” he says, though I don’t know if he’s apologizing for the miscarriage or for not being here, or not being what he thinks I want him to be, or…?
“Please, Dean,” I whisper, my whole being aching for him. “I need you so much.”
He lifts my hand and presses a kiss to the scar on my palm, then moves away.
A sudden fear billows in me as I watch the door close behind him. I know my husband. I know he will never forgive himself for not being here.