Binds That Tie Page 3

  He felt his control slipping. “Why? This feels so good. Please don’t shut me out again, like you always do.” He hated the whine in his voice, but he refused to go back to the tundra.

  “This doesn’t fix everything,” she said. Her voice held no malice, none of her usual contempt. Her words were simply out there, true and plain as fact.

  “No.” He knew that was true, but their current détente had the fragile feel of a cold war. One wrong move, and everything could blow the hell up. “But it’s a start. Right?”

  “Yes…” Her hair fell over her face, rendering it unreadable. As if it was ever really readable. “I don’t know how to erase it all, Chris. Even now, two years later.”

  “We can’t erase it. Like Dr. Deets said, we have to move forward.”

  “It’s like my mind won’t let me forget. I start to, and then I think about her. About Tracy. Even now, she’s here.” Maggie shifted away from Chris, tucking the blanket up around her chest.

  “Okay, what do I have to do? How long do I pay for it? Forever?” He pounded the mattress with his fist.

  “Well, what if I can’t get over it?”

  Her face was open, and to him, that was a step forward. He held her hand, softly thumbing the spot between her thumb and forefinger. He studied her long thin fingers, adorned with a delicate solitaire diamond and a plain band. “Then, I guess, I live with that. That’s my cross to bear.”

  He felt the burden of more guilt suffocating him in the dusk of their bedroom. They sat like that, holding hands, for a while. Chris wondered if they got up and continued about their life, would they ever get back to that place again?

  Way back when, before all the babies, before Tracy, he could lie in bed for hours next to Maggie, her legs wound around his. One gray February day, probably seven years ago, they had declared one day Naked Tuesday. Both Maggie and Chris had played hooky from work and burrowed under the heavy down quilt, emerging only to grab food and smuggle it back to the bedroom. Chris remembered Maggie diving under the warm blankets with a box of Ritz crackers, squealing from the frigid apartment air. That day seemed a million years ago, as if it had happened to two different people.

  Then, fleetingly, his mind went to Derek, as it so often did.

  Maggie looked up, met his eyes, and smiled. A real, genuine smile. “Did you still want to go out?”

  Chapter Three

  Maggie

  Maggie had an incompetent cervix. When the doctor told them that, Maggie tried to make a joke and roll her eyes in Chris’s direction. No one had laughed.

  Instead Chris said, “What does that mean?”

  “Well, the cervical tissue is too weak to accommodate a pregnancy. Once the uterus gains any substantial weight, puts any pressure at all on the cervix, the cervix dilates, resulting in a miscarriage or a preterm birth. It generally happens in the second trimester, but it can happen as late as the third.”

  “But what about the first one, then?” Maggie asked.

  She remembered her first miscarriage—was it possible that she sometimes forgot it?—the blood and cramping at eleven weeks, the long night in the hospital, the almost laissez-faire attitude of the nurses. Sometimes things happen, honey. The deflation she’d felt. It wasn’t really sadness, but frustration at having to start over with the calendar and the ever-romantic sex on schedule.

  “That may have been related. First-trimester miscarriages aren’t typical in cervical incompetence, but then again, we don’t know all that much about it.” The doctor cleared his throat in tacit apology for not having all the answers.

  Maggie stared at her hands, turning the words over in her mind—incompetent cervix. Two little words that meant she could never have babies.

  “Can we do anything about it?” Chris’s voice cracked, and it occurred to Maggie for the first time that Chris would hurt, too.

  She’d been so focused on herself—her body, diagnoses, doctors’ office visits, procedures, pills—that she’d almost forgotten him. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

  “We can perform a cerclage. That’s a surgical procedure where the opening to the cervix is stitched closed. There’s some controversy about whether it’s effective, and it comes with some risks. We can also try bed rest. Anecdotal evidence suggests that’s as effective as a cerclage. And we can always attempt to halt early labor with intervention. Steroids work well for some people.”

  “You’re saying these things—sometimes it works, or anecdotal evidence, or tend to work for some people… None of that means it will work, right? None of that means you can fix me?” Maggie’s voice edged up higher, and she covered her mouth with her hand.

  All her babies—all three of them at the time—were sacrificed for nothing, really. The doctors couldn’t learn anything about it or give her a drug to fix the problem. She’d spent a year feeling so angry because she didn’t know why all of her miscarriages were happening, but that anger paled in comparison to the rage she felt after learning the problem had no solution.

  “No, unfortunately, there is no easy ‘fix,’” he said.

  Chris put his arms across her shoulders and pulled her into his chest. The doctor waited until she sat up, sniffling, and then handed her a tissue.

  “Okay,” she said, “so what do I do?”

  “Well, we can keep trying. We’ll handle problems as they arise and do our best. I won’t tell you to stop trying to have a baby. Women with cervical incompetence have healthy children all the time. The body is amazing. Sometimes it just figures it out.”

  Maggie nodded, numbly, not sure at all that she did know. She wasn’t sure she could keep going through that, but she couldn’t give up.

  Maggie was at home doing much-needed house cleaning with her ear buds on. The iPod was cranked at full volume and tucked into her back jeans pocket. She needed a day off, a day away from Linda’s endless good intentions and sound advice.

  Dear, you’ll be sorry you didn’t try harder now. Linda only knew about one of the four miscarriages, and she’d waved it off as incidental, the way one waves a fly off potato salad. Everyone has them. You need to move on. You know, I had two? It’s God’s way.

  Maggie had grown weary of hearing the variations on that—God’s way, the body’s way. She sang loudly, forgetting how good it felt to just let go and be happy. As she passed through the kitchen, she glanced at her phone, sitting face up on the counter, and noticed the waiting text message. She pulled the ear buds out of her ears, tucked them into her front pocket, and unlocked her phone.

  What about tonight? Wanna meet up at the Hut?

  The message made her feel both flattered and a bit sick.

  This has to stop, Logan. I told you I can’t cheat on Chris. Maggie hit send.

  She jumped when her phone rang a minute later.

  “Who said anything about an affair?” His voice was like silk.

  They’d never spoken on the phone, and she’d forgotten how nice he sounded. He had a deep voice, a rumbling that was more like a growl, with a slight Carolina accent. Her mind wandered to where he’d grown up or what his childhood had been like, but she dismissed the thought. She would never know. It had to end. Now.

  “Oh, come on, don’t be coy. Of course it would go that way.” She giggled despite herself.

  “No, we can be friends, beautiful.”

  “Men and women, especially those who meet in dark bars, secretly, at night, cannot be friends.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Logan, I’m serious. The flattery feels good. I’ve needed it, but it’s time for me to focus on my marriage. I’ve got to try, okay?”

  “I thought you did try. You said you’d been to counseling.” He seemed a bit pouty, and that was much less attractive.

  She grimaced into the phone. “We did. But we’re
married. For better, for worse, and all that. Please?”

  “Well, I don’t get that. You were on the hunt that night at the bar. I can tell. Your marriage won’t last the year.”

  She was taken aback by his spite. Logan had never seemed hot tempered, and she was turned off by his about-face.

  When she didn’t speak, he continued. “Well, when it’s over, give me a call. Maybe I’ll be around.”

  “Oh, come on, Logan, don’t be like that. We had fun, no one got hurt; it’s not like you’re in love with me or anything. It was harmless flirting.”

  “Would your husband think so?”

  Little alarm bells went off in her head. “Good-bye, Logan.” She sighed. Before she could say anything else, he hung up. She yanked up the laundry basket. Men. Geesh—and they say we’re sensitive.

  She loved the smell of a clean house—the combination of Pine Sol and laundry detergent and a lit coconut candle. The soft whir of the ceiling fan in the living room was a soothing balm. She’d read somewhere that happiness was derived from accomplishment. Cleaning had cleared her head, allowing her to think for the first time in ages. She examined her deep-down buzz, the undertone to her whole day, and declared herself happy.

  For months, she’d nurtured a pulsing hate, an unexplained animosity toward Chris she couldn’t decipher. It had woken her up at night, sweating and scared. She didn’t want to be a lonely, miserable wife—the kind that goes to Longaberger basket parties, drinks too much sangria, and trashes her husband in shrilly laughter—but she didn’t want to be alone, either. She thought about the night before, about Chris’s hands on her waist, her stomach, her breasts, his mouth hot on her bare shoulder. The panic in his eyes when she’d sat up, breaking the spell, gave her a tender pang.

  She’d decided earlier in the week to try some of Gale’s old recipes. Years ago, right after they’d married, his mom had written down all Chris’s favorite dishes in a wire-bound journal. It had stayed tucked in the cabinet, shoved between editions of Betty Crocker and the Joy of Cooking, and had been used about an equal number of times. She pulled it down, blew the dust off the top, and flipped through it, finding the recipe for chicken pot pie. Small gestures, Dr. Deets said in her head. For the first time since they’d paid for counseling, she felt like following his advice. Was that what forgiveness felt like? Maybe. Tentative forgiveness. And maybe if she could tentatively forgive for a while, she could stop seeing the ghost of Tracy at every marital crossroad.

  She browned chicken until the air became thick with the smell of garlic and mirepoix, and she carefully cultivated a roux. She remembered liking to cook way back when and being good at it. She found satisfaction in watching the dish come together, the different spices melding into one flavor that would pop on her tongue. What did they call it? Oh yes. Marrying. Her cell phone trilled with an incoming text.

  I’m thinking of you.

  Well, stop. Find someone else to think about. Someone who’s not married, if you know what’s good for you.

  What are you wearing?

  Good-bye, Logan. She took her phone over to her purse, turned the ringer down, and tucked it into the pocket so she wouldn’t be tempted to look at it.

  Chris’s eyes widened in surprise, but he said nothing. She tried not to be irritated. Silence had been his weapon of choice for so long. Or shield, depending on how she looked at it. She’d set the table with real plates and silverware, white starched cloth napkins, and glass wine goblets half-full with a rich cabernet. No candles, though. She felt a bit uncomfortable with the over-the-top gesture of candles. Baby steps.

  The whole setup was a stark contrast to their habit of eating on tray tables in front of the television, like an elderly couple. The feeling of courting her husband made her feel lighter somehow. For the first time in as long as she could remember, her belly didn’t ache with emptiness and her chest wasn’t tight with anger. She couldn’t explain the about-face, but she felt compelled to act on it.

  Chris led the conversation, haltingly at first. He told Maggie about his day, of Ed and the latest snafu at the site. She let him lead but didn’t brood over silences, and she tried to keep up her end of the chatter. She felt a bit silly, as if she was on a first date. As smooth as a subway ride, the conversation started and stopped. She told him about Helen and her boyfriend breaking up, then about her sister and her sister’s kids, then about her parents’ latest cruise plans. She waited for a lull in the conversation.

  Ice tinkled against the side of her glass as she took a sip of water. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about trying for another baby?”

  Chris’s head snapped up, his fork poised midway to his mouth. He slowly set it back down on his plate.

  Maggie rushed on. “Not now. I don’t think, anyway. But I don’t think it’s a horrible idea. Not anymore, anyway.”

  “What changed your mind?” Chris turned his fork, staring at his plate.

  “I don’t know. I just… feel better. Lately, I guess. I don’t know if that makes sense or not, but well, there it is.”

  Chris nodded, making a face like well, okay then. He gave Maggie a small smile, and they finished their dinner in unusually comfortable silence. Maggie stood to clear the table, lifting her eyebrows when Chris also stood to help.

  “What? I never do this?” His voice was challenging, a throwback to old patterns.

  Maggie bit her tongue, clamping down on a sarcastic response. “I didn’t say that, you said that.” She smiled to alleviate misinterpretation.

  His body relaxed, and his hands, with a plate in each, sagged. She turned her head so he couldn’t see her smile, victorious over her win. As he walked past her, he gently nudged her back with his elbow, as if to say sorry. Those were the capricious conversations of unhappily married couples. What were the conversations of happily married couples? She couldn’t remember.

  That night as they fell asleep, she felt Chris move across the bed. His hand slipped, soft as a ribbon, around her waist. He pulled her into him, tucked into the bow of his body. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d held her like that as they fell asleep. She vaguely remembered being first married, appalled to discover he didn’t actually like to fall asleep like that. They’d had a fight about it—about spooning at night. She’d thought that it was a huge problem, that her own husband didn’t even want to sleep next to her. The dramatic arguments of newlyweds—before there were any real problems and all they could do was invent them.

  She lay there for hours, listening to Chris breathe as her mind spun with thoughts of him, her babies, her friends, and Logan. She felt a pang of regret for ending things with Logan so abruptly, so coldly. She knew she’d miss the musical scale of an incoming text to tell her she was beautiful, desirable, loved. Chris should be saying those things, not a stranger.

  Disengaging Chris’s arm, she tiptoed out of bed and crept down the stairs. Pulling her cell phone out of her purse, she hit the button to activate the backlight.

  Thirty-two new text messages. Thirty-two? That seemed crazy. She punched in her code to unlock her phone. Her heart raced as she scrolled through them, not even reading them completely. She was stunned that he texted her thirty-two times in one evening. When she got to the last one, she blinked twice and shivered with the cold chill of fear.

  You’re a fucking bitch, Maggie.

  Chapter Four

  Maggie

  Maggie had a deep-down-in-her-gut heaviness that brought with it fear and foreboding. The fear manifested itself in odd ways: she jumped when she heard the mail slot open and shut with the daily delivery; she called in sick from work two days in a row; she could have sworn she saw Logan in the supermarket, but then he seemed to vanish into thin air in the produce aisle. What she wasn’t imagining were the daily ten or twelve missed calls and the countless text messages that rushed in like a river. A woman-m
ade river that will drown me.

  By Friday, she was fed up. She called the cell phone company and asked them to change her number.

  “Did you want a new phone?” the voice on the other end chirped.

  Maggie’s mind gave her blond hair, blue eyes, and a normal boyfriend. Not a husband or a psychotic stalker she invited into her life while she was bored and lonely. “No. I just want a new number.”

  “Are you sure? Because it costs you nothing to upgrade, and your phone is a little bit out of date…” She giggled as her voice trailed off.

  Maggie banged the phone face down on the counter without hanging up. She missed the big, corded phones, back when people still had landlines for harmless chatting, not psychotic text messaging. Those were the days when she could slam the phone down on someone. No matter how hard she pressed the ‘End’ button, it remained disappointedly static to the recipient. A phone slam was the best she could do, and she smiled before picking it back up again. “I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “I dropped the phone. What did you say?”

  “Are you sure you don’t want an upgrade?” The blonde was persistent but far less giggly. Thank God.

  “No. Just a new number.”

  “Well, I see you’re on a family plan. I’ll have to change both numbers. Is that okay?”

  “You can’t just change mine?” She realized then that either way she’d need a story. Another lie to Chris. She sighed. “Okay, I’ll take the upgrade. What do I do?”

  The blonde explained the process in excruciating detail, until Maggie felt as though she wanted to claw at her face. The blonde’s voice was still coming through the earpiece, tinny and distant, when Maggie walked to the bathroom and dropped her phone into the toilet.