Chapter 8 - Thirty-Three Weeks
The hospital looked different when I returned.
The first night, I had arrived terrified of losing Clara.
Now I understood I had already lost the version of her who trusted me.
This time, I was terrified of losing something else.
Our son.
Rachel met me near labor and delivery.
Her arms were crossed.
"She's stable."
I exhaled.
"Baby?"
"Heart rate is good."
"What happened?"
"Spotting."
My stomach tightened.
"The doctor says stress might be contributing."
I looked down.
Rachel watched me.
"Don't make this about blaming yourself."
I glanced up.
"That's generous."
"It's not."
She shook her head.
"If you turn guilt into a performance, Clara will have to manage your feelings too."
I absorbed that.
"You're right."
Rachel blinked, as if she expected resistance.
"Can I see her?"
"I asked."
"And?"
"She said ten minutes."
I couldn't breathe for a second.
"Okay."
"Don't explain."
"I won't."
"Don't beg."
"I won't."
"Don't ask whether she still loves you."
My throat tightened.
"I won't."
Rachel studied my face.
"Then go."
Clara's room was dim.
The curtains were drawn.
A monitor traced our son's heartbeat in green light.
Clara was lying on her side.
Her face looked smaller against the white pillow.
When I entered, she didn't turn.
I stood by the door.
"Hi."
Her eyes opened.
"Hi."
That single word nearly broke me.
I moved toward the chair.
"Can I sit?"
She nodded.
I sat.
Neither of us spoke for several seconds.
The fetal monitor filled the silence.
Then Clara asked, "Did you fix the insurance?"
I stared at her.
"You know?"
"Rachel told me."
"Yes."
I swallowed.
"It's fixed."
Clara closed her eyes.
"Your mother tried to remove me."
"Yes."
"Before the baby was born."
"She thought your due date was earlier."
Clara laughed softly.
It sounded exhausted.
"That's supposed to make it better?"
"No."
I shook my head.
"Nothing about it is better."
She opened her eyes.
"Did you know?"
"No."
"I believe you."
Relief rose instinctively.
Then she added, "That's not the same as trusting you."
The relief disappeared.
"I know."
She looked at me.
"Did she know about Emily?"
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Months."
Clara's jaw tightened.
"Of course."
"I'm sorry."
"Stop."
I nodded.
She looked toward the monitor.
"Did she tell you to leave me?"
"No."
"Did she want you to?"
I hesitated.
Clara noticed.
"Answer."
"I think so."
Her eyes filled.
She looked away quickly.
I wanted to reach for her.
I didn't.
After a minute, she spoke.
"I kept trying to impress her."
My throat tightened.
"What?"
"Your mother."
She laughed once.
"I kept thinking if I cooked better."
"Dressed better."
"Hosted holidays perfectly."
"Made partner dinners more elegant."
"Maybe she would stop looking at me like I was temporary."
"Clara—"
"Do you know what she said when we told her I was pregnant?"
I remembered.
She had smiled.
Hugged Clara.
Opened champagne for everyone else.
"No."
Clara looked at me.
"She said, 'I hope motherhood gives you a little more confidence.'"
My stomach turned.
"I didn't hear that."
"You were opening the bottle."
I closed my eyes.
How many injuries had occurred inside rooms where I was present but not paying attention?
Clara's voice softened.
"I used to think your mother was the difficult part of our marriage."
I looked at her.
"Then I realized you never stopped her because some part of you agreed with her."
"That's not true."
The denial came automatically.
Clara's eyes hardened.
I stopped.
Then forced myself to reconsider.
Had I agreed with my mother?
Not consciously.
But how many times had I let her insult Clara's teaching salary?
How many jokes about public schools had I ignored?
How many times had I encouraged Clara to change dresses before firm events because something looked "too casual"?
How many moments had communicated the same thing?
You're lucky to be here.
"I let her make you feel small."
I said.
Clara stared at me.
"Yes."
It was the first time I had said it plainly.
"I thought staying quiet meant I wasn't participating."
I continued.
"But I was."
Her eyes filled again.
She turned toward the wall.
"I need you to leave."
My chest tightened.
"Okay."
I stood.
At the door, her voice stopped me.
"Nathan."
I turned.
"Did you love her?"
There it was.
The question I had feared.
"Emily?"
"Yes."
I could have lied.
I had become skilled at giving people whatever answer protected me.
But Clara had asked for truth.
"No."
Her face changed.
Somehow that hurt her more.
"If you loved her."
She whispered.
"At least I could understand why you risked everything."
I stepped closer but stopped beside the chair.
"I liked who I got to pretend to be with her."
Clara looked at me.
"Who was that?"
"Someone uncomplicated."
"Successful."
"Desired."
She nodded slowly.
"And who were you with me?"
My eyes burned.
"Known."
Clara looked away.
"That should have been better."
"I know."
She shook her head.
"Then you should have acted like it."
I nodded.
She wiped her cheek.
"Go."
I left.
An hour later, the doctor came out.
False alarm.
No active labor.
Bed rest.
Close monitoring.
Steroid injections to help the baby's lungs mature in case early delivery became necessary.
I listened carefully.
For once, I didn't interrupt with questions designed to show how much I knew.
When the doctor finished, I asked one thing.
"What can I do that helps?"
He looked at me.
"Reduce her stress."
That answer would have been simple for anyone else.
For me, it meant distance.
I drove home.
At 11:00 p.m., I found a message from Samantha Ellis.
Mr. Hale,
Mrs. Hale has asked that you provide complete financial disclosures within five business days.
She is also requesting temporary exclusive use of the marital residence upon discharge.
I read that sentence twice.
Clara wanted the house.
Of course she did.
The nursery was there.
Her doctors were nearby.
I replied through David.
Agree.
Then I packed a suitcase.
Not because a court ordered me to.
Because for the first time in months, I could give Clara something she had asked for without making her fight me.
I moved into an extended-stay apartment near downtown.
The room had beige walls.
A kitchenette.
One bed.
One chair.
No history.
I set my suitcase on the floor.
Then I noticed a hotel housekeeping cart outside my door.
A woman in a burgundy uniform was replacing towels two rooms down.
I closed the door.
May you like
And for the first time, I understood why shame sometimes arrives in ordinary colors.
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