Chapter 4 - The Nursery With No Crib
I went home at four in the morning.
Not because I wanted to.
Because there was nowhere else for me to go.
Clara did not want me at the hospital.
Thomas expected me at the firm by eight.
And Rachel had returned to our house to collect Clara's belongings.
By the time I pulled into the driveway, Rachel's car was gone.
The porch light was still on.
I stood outside for almost a minute before opening the door.
The house felt wrong.
Too quiet.
Clara's shoes weren't beside the bench.
Her tan coat was gone.
The framed sonogram photograph still sat on the console table.
That hurt more than the empty hooks.
I went upstairs.
Her side of the closet had been cleared.
Not completely.
She had taken enough for several weeks.
The blue dress she wore to our anniversary dinner still hung beside one of my suits.
I touched the sleeve.
Then I saw the nursery.
The door was open.
I had avoided that room for weeks because every time Clara talked about paint colors or storage shelves, I had pretended I was too busy.
Now I walked inside.
The walls were pale blue.
One corner held unopened boxes of diapers.
A small secondhand changing table stood beneath the window.
The rocking chair wasn't there.
Neither was the crib.
I remembered telling Clara we should wait until after my "conference season."
I sat on the floor.
There was a notebook on the windowsill.
NURSERY.
Clara had written the word in careful block letters.
Inside were lists.
Crib.
Mattress.
Monitor.
Car seat.
Bottle warmer.
Curtains.
Beside each item was a price.
Some were crossed out and replaced with cheaper options.
At the bottom of one page, she had written:
Hotel shifts.
$18.50/hr + occasional tips.
Goal before delivery: $4,000.
I closed the notebook.
Four thousand dollars.
I had spent more than that on one weekend with Emily in Miami.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Emily.
I stared at her name for several seconds before opening it.
I DON'T WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU.
I AM SENDING YOUR THINGS TO THE FRONT DESK.
DO NOT CONTACT ME.
A second message arrived.
AND FOR THE RECORD, I DIDN'T KNOW SHE WAS PREGNANT.
You told me you and Clara had been living separately for almost a year.
I sat against the nursery wall.
That was true.
Not the separation.
The lie.
I had told Emily that Clara lived in Connecticut.
I said the divorce was delayed because of property issues.
I never mentioned the pregnancy.
Emily had once asked why I never invited her to my home.
I told her Clara still owned half of it.
Technically true.
Almost every effective lie contains something true.
At seven thirty, I showered.
I put on another suit.
Then I opened the drawer where I kept my wedding ring.
I stared at it.
After several seconds, I put it on.
It looked ridiculous.
Not because it didn't fit.
Because it represented a promise I had already broken while still wanting credit for wearing the symbol.
I took it off again.
At eight twelve, I entered Whitaker & Hale.
Thomas was waiting.
So was our managing partner, Rebecca Sloan.
And someone from accounting.
That was when I knew this was bigger than a reprimand.
Rebecca closed the conference room door.
"Sit down."
I sat.
Thomas didn't look at me.
Rebecca slid a stack of documents across the table.
"Are these your expense submissions?"
I glanced at them.
"Yes."
"Are all of them legitimate business-development expenses?"
I hesitated.
"No."
The accountant began writing.
Rebecca's expression didn't change.
"How many are personal?"
"I don't know exactly."
"You submitted them."
"I know."
"Then estimate."
I looked at the pages.
"Maybe thirty thousand."
Thomas finally looked at me.
The disappointment on his face was worse than anger.
Rebecca folded her hands.
"Preliminary review shows thirty-seven thousand four hundred twenty-six dollars."
I stared down.
"I'll repay it."
"This isn't just about repayment."
"I know."
"Do you?"
She leaned forward.
"One of the hotel charges was allocated to the Morrison litigation."
My head snapped up.
"What?"
"You coded it to the Morrison file."
"That was an accident."
"An accident that charged personal spending to a client matter."
"I didn't bill the client directly."
"No."
Rebecca said.
"But the firm reimbursed the expense based on your representation."
My stomach turned.
Thomas rubbed his forehead.
"Jesus, Nathan."
"I'll fix it."
Rebecca's voice became colder.
"You are a lawyer."
"I know."
"You signed reimbursement certifications."
"I know."
"You certified that these were business expenses."
"I know."
"Stop saying you know."
I flinched.
She pushed another page toward me.
"You're suspended effective immediately pending a complete audit."
I looked at Thomas.
He stared at the table.
"Suspended?"
"Turn over your access card."
"Rebecca, I have clients."
"They will be reassigned."
"This firm has my name on the wall."
"That does not give you immunity from consequences."
I looked through the glass conference wall.
Employees were moving past.
People I had mentored.
Associates who admired me.
Assistants who scheduled my fake seminars.
"You can't do this without a partnership vote."
"We already had one at seven."
My chest tightened.
"What was the vote?"
Rebecca held my eyes.
"Unanimous."
I looked at Thomas.
"You voted to suspend me?"
He finally met my gaze.
"Yes."
I leaned back.
The room felt smaller.
Rebecca slid a form toward me.
"Your laptop."
I placed it on the table.
"Your access badge."
I unclipped it from my wallet.
"And any firm credit cards."
I removed one card.
Then another.
The accountant placed them in an envelope.
I almost laughed.
For six months, I had walked into this building believing power meant never having to explain myself.
Now three pieces of plastic had reduced me to a visitor.
Rebecca's phone buzzed.
She checked the screen.
Then she looked at me.
"There's one more thing."
"What?"
"Someone sent Thomas documentation last night."
I looked at him.
He shook his head.
"Not me."
Rebecca turned the phone toward me.
An email had been sent to the firm's ethics address at 2:06 a.m.
Attached were copies of my expense statements.
The same statements Clara had given Rachel.
My heartbeat accelerated.
"Who sent that?"
Rebecca enlarged the sender field.
The address was unfamiliar.
But the message wasn't.
Please review these charges.
They may involve personal expenses falsely categorized as client development.
I am not requesting anonymity for revenge.
I am providing records because I believe clients and employees may be affected.
C.H.
Clara Hale.
I stared at those initials.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Thomas sighed.
"She reported you."
I looked at him.
"No."
Rebecca raised an eyebrow.
"No?"
I shook my head slowly.
"She protected everyone else."
That was the difference.
I had thought Clara wanted to destroy me.
But she hadn't posted photographs.
She hadn't contacted gossip sites.
She hadn't called my clients.
She had sent evidence to the people responsible for fixing the damage.
Even betrayed, she was careful.
Ethical.
Measured.
Everything I had not been.
My phone buzzed.
Rachel.
A photograph appeared.
Clara was lying in a hospital bed with monitors attached to her stomach.
Her face was turned away from the camera.
Under the photograph, Rachel had written:
BABY IS STABLE.
SHE'S BEING DISCHARGED THIS AFTERNOON.
DO NOT COME HERE.
Then another message.
SHE'S NOT COMING HOME.
I stared at it until the words blurred.
Thomas followed my gaze.
"Clara?"
I nodded.
"Is the baby okay?"
"Yes."
"Good."
He paused.
Then he said something I wasn't prepared for.
"Nathan, go home."
"I don't have work."
"I know."
"No."
I looked at the conference room.
At the laptop.
At my access badge.
At the people removing me from the career I had spent fifteen years building.
"I mean I don't have a home."
Nobody answered.
Because we all knew the house still belonged to me.
May you like
The person who had made it a home was simply gone.
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