Chapter 2 - The Fall and the Awakening
The air in the upstairs nursery was thick with the chemical tang of fresh yellow paint and the heavy humidity of a East Tennessee summer. I was seven months along, my back aching, my ankles swollen, holding a paintbrush with hands that had started to tremble around three in the afternoon. Conrad stood in the doorway, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows with surgical precision, watching me work.
"You missed a spot near the baseboard, Loretta," he said. His voice wasn't loud. It was never loud. It carried the calm, flat authority of a physician delivering a routine diagnosis. "You're rushing. You always rush when you get tired, and then the work suffers."
"Conrad, I've been painting for four hours," I said softly, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist. "I just need to sit down for twenty minutes. My lower back feels like lead."
"If you sit down now, the coat will dry unevenly," he replied, taking two slow steps into the room. He reached out and took the brush from my fingers. He didn't drop it; he set it down on the plastic drop cloth with deliberate care. "Your doctor said light activity is good for your circulation. I'm concerned about your fluid retention. You're eating too much salt."
"I had an apple and a piece of toast for lunch, Conrad."
"And the peanut butter on the toast?" He stepped closer. The scent of his antiseptic soap filled the space between us. "How many grams of sodium was in that serving, Loretta? Did you read the label?"
Before I could answer, the front door downstairs clicked open and closed. Heavy, measured footsteps climbed the carpeted stairs. Roberta appeared in the doorway, wearing a crisp floral blouse and carrying a wicker basket draped with a yellowed tea towel. She smelled of lavender perfume and stale cigarettes.
"Conrad, sweetie," Roberta said, her voice dripping with syrupy affection that didn't reach her pale gray eyes. She didn't look at me. She never looked at me first. "I brought over your father's old newborn gowns. I spent two hours ironing them. Though looking at the state of this room, I suppose you aren't ready for clean linens yet."
"Loretta is taking a break," Conrad said. The tone was neutral, but I knew the dialect. It was an invitation.
Roberta sighed, a small, sad sound that she performed better than an actress. "Well. Some mothers find the energy when it's for their child. But I know things are different nowadays. Women get tired so easily when they aren't used to real domestic effort."
"I am an accountant, Roberta," I said, the words slipping out before my brain could stop them. "I work forty hours a week and I am carrying a seven-month-old child. I am allowed to be tired."
The room dropped ten degrees in an instant. Roberta’s eyes finally snapped to mine, sharp as needles. "Conrad," she murmured softly. "She's raising her voice in front of the baby's things. She's so high-strung lately. It isn't healthy for the blood pressure."
"Loretta," Conrad said. His hand came down on my shoulder. His thumb pressed into the soft muscle between my neck and collarbone—not a caress, but a clamp. "Apologize to my mother."
"No," I whispered. My heart was slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird. "I didn't do anything wrong. I want both of you to leave this room so I can rest."
"Apologize," he repeated. The pressure of his thumb increased until a sharp spike of pain shot down my arm.
"Let go of me, Conrad!" I yanked my shoulder back.
What happened next didn't happen in a blur. It happened in crisp, horrifying detail. Conrad's right hand drew back and struck the side of my face with the weight of an iron bar. The force of the blow tore a sound from my throat that I didn't recognize as human. My head snapped sideways, the wall rushing up to meet me. My hip slammed into the edge of the changing table, shattering the pine frame, and then I was on the floor, flat on my side on the cold drop cloth, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
Pain exploded across my abdomen—a deep, tearing ache that made me scream. I curled my arm around my belly, protecting the baby with every instinct my body possessed.
Through the tears burning my eyes, I looked up toward the doorway.
Roberta was standing there. She hadn't flinched. She hadn't gasped. She held the wicker basket of old baby clothes tightly against her waist, her face smooth, composed, and utterly cold. She watched her son stand over his bleeding, pregnant wife the way a person watches a repairman fix a lawnmower.
"You need to teach her how to mind, Conrad," Roberta said softly, her voice flat and even. "Before the child arrives."
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Conrad stepped forward, his leather shoe coming down inches from my nose. "Get up, Loretta," he said.
I didn't get up. Darkness rushed in from the edges of my vision, heavy and black, swallowing the yellow room, the scent of paint, and the sound of my husband's breathing.
