Chapter 2
The silence that followed Diane’s words was thick enough to suffocate.
Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Even the background playlist Holly had put together—soft, gentle acoustic songs meant for sipping raspberry punch and opening handmade booties—suddenly sounded grotesque.
"Demons?" I repeated, looking at Adam. The word felt foreign, heavy, impossible. "What is she talking about?"
"Natalie, don't listen to her," Adam plead, stepping between me and his mother. "She's dramatic. She’s always hated how we do things. Let’s get in the car. We’ll go home, I’ll show you the statements, I’ll explain everything. Just please, get your coat."
"Don't you dare touch her," Holly said, stepping out from behind the kitchen island. She still held the thick stack of baby shower envelopes against her chest like a shield. Her knuckles were white. "Adam, step away from my best friend right now."
"Holly, stay out of this! This is between my wife and me!" Adam roared, turning on her. It was a roar I had never heard come out of his mouth in seven years of marriage. He was usually easygoing, the guy who laughed off burnt dinners and made silly impressions of the neighbors. The sheer violence in his voice made Aunt Carol gasp and step back into the hallway.
"Adam," Diane said coldly. "Don't yell at these women. You’re disgusting."
"I am trying to protect my family!"
"You're protecting your habit," Diane shot back. Her chin was held high, but I saw the slight tremor in her bottom lip. This wasn't anger; it was an old, calcified terror. "Tell her about the draft notices, Adam. Tell her why the bank called me last Tuesday asking if I would co-sign a personal consolidation loan so your truck wouldn't get repossessed from your driveway."
My knees actually gave out.
If Holly hadn't caught my elbow and guided me down onto the sofa, I would have hit the hardwood floor. The room seemed to tilt sideways. The pink balloons, the baby clothes patterned with tiny ducks, the smiling picture of Adam and me at our five-year anniversary sitting on the mantle—it all blurred together into a nauseating smear.
"Your truck?" I whispered, looking up at him through tears that burned like acid. "We just paid six hundred dollars for the registration and new tires last month. You told me the payment cleared."
"It did clear," Adam stammered. "It was just... the interest rate jumped, Nat. It was a clerical error with the credit union."
"Stop lying to her!" Diane yelled, slamming her handbag down onto a side table. A porcelain figurine rattled against the wood. "Your father spent the last five years of his life paying off your first mess before he died, Adam! I swore on his grave I would never watch another woman walk into the meat grinder for you! Natalie is carrying your child!"
"Shut up! Shut up!" Adam covered his face with both hands. He began pacing Holly’s living room, back and forth across the Turkish rug, breathing like an animal cornered in a trap. "You don't know anything! You think I wanted this? You think I asked for the market to crash? I was trying to make enough for June’s college fund! I was trying to give us a cushion so Natalie wouldn't have to go back to work in six weeks!"
"By asking my family for charity?" I asked, my voice rising until it cracked. "Aunt Carol is on a fixed pension, Adam! Uncle Robert had a knee replacement six months ago! You looked my family in the eye and told them I was sick to take their retirement savings?"
Aunt Carol was weeping silently by the coat rack now, her hands pressed over her mouth. Several guests were already quietly gathering their purses, their faces flushed with the profound discomfort of witnessing a marriage disintegrate in real time. One by one, women who had come to celebrate life slipped out the front door into the brisk autumn air, until the only people left in the house were Holly, Aunt Carol, Diane, Adam, and me.
"Nat," Adam dropped to his knees in front of the couch where I sat. He reached out to take my hands, but I yanked them back, tucking them under my baby bump, shielding June from his touch. The rejection hit him like a physical blow. He flinched, tears finally spilling over his eyelids. "It wasn't like that. Robert offered—"
"Robert did not offer," Diane interrupted. "Robert called me three days ago asking if Natalie was going to make it through delivery without emergency surgery. He was crying, Adam. An eighty-two-year-old man was crying on my phone because you told him the umbilical cord was wrapped around your daughter’s neck and you needed private clinic care."
I felt the blood drain completely from my skull. A high, ringing tone pierced my ears.
"You told them my baby was dying?" I choked.
May you like
Adam looked up at me, his eyes wild, hollow, completely unrecognizable. "I had to get the bookmaker off my back, Natalie. You don't understand the people I was dealing with. They were going to come to the school."
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