Divorce While I'm Pregnant? Fine, Let's Sign It! novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: The Car at the Curb

Constance's driver waits to take Greta to a lake house, she leaves on foot, and her old doctor's office says her records have moved.

I told Otis I would come back for the recording, and I walked the four blocks home with my scarf over my mouth.

A black car was parked at the curb outside our building, engine running.

The back window slid down.

"Get in, Greta," said my mother-in-law.

Constance Stroud sat very straight in a camel coat, with her pearls and her silver hair twisted up, as she had at every family dinner for six years.

Next to her sat a woman in a gray uniform with a medical bag on her lap.

"Holden telephoned me," Constance said. "You'll rest at the lake house until the birth. Nurse will stay with you."

"I'm not going to the lake house."

"You are overwrought. It isn't safe for the baby."

"I've been pregnant for twenty-five weeks, Constance. I've never been calmer."

She looked at my belly, not my face.

"Your bags are packed," she said. "They're in the lobby."

I went inside.

Two matching suitcases stood at the doorman's desk with paper tags on the handles.

The tags said LAKE HOUSE in black marker.

I didn't recognize the handwriting, but I recognized the suitcases, because I had bought them for our honeymoon.

Someone had been in my closet this afternoon, while I sat on a doctor's table listening to our daughter's heartbeat.

"Mrs. Stroud," the doorman said quietly. He wouldn't meet my eyes. "I was told not to let you go up without Mr. Stroud's permission."

"Is that a rule for everyone?"

"It was added at two o'clock."

"I see."

I rode the service elevator, because the doorman had a gift for forgetting to watch it.

The penthouse smelled like paint.

A cream cardigan hung over a kitchen chair.

I knew whose it was, because I had folded it for her after the baby shower.

In the guest room, a suitcase lay open on the bed with a woman's blouses inside, the ones Daphne wore to the office.

She had moved in, and I had been thanking her with casseroles.

I stood in the doorway until my hands stopped shaking.

Then I went through the apartment taking only what was mine.

My grandfather's recipe tin, dented on one corner, with his handwriting on every card.

The roll of knives I hadn't opened in two years.

The ultrasound photos from the fridge.

I looked in on the nursery last.

The walls were bright yellow, and three white boxes were stacked in the corner with the crib still flat inside.

A card was taped to the closet door: "Welcome home, little one. Love, Mommy D."

I peeled it off and put it in my coat pocket.

I didn't want to leave it for her to find.

Downstairs, I went out through the lobby with my duffel on my shoulder and the recipe tin under my arm.

The doorman looked at the floor.

Constance's window slid down again.

"Greta, don't be childish. Where will you go with forty dollars and no card?"

"I have a card."

"Not for long."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a courtesy," she said. "My son can be generous when he's treated with respect. Think about that, dear."

I walked past her car to the corner.

A man at a cart sold hot cocoa for four dollars.

My feet hurt, my back hurt, and I had not eaten the dessert I came out for.

I held out my card.

The machine beeped.

"Declined," the man said apologetically. "Try again?"

I tried again.

"Declined."

I had a debit card from my old bank in my other pocket, with eleven dollars on it from when I used to work.

I bought one cocoa with it and held it in both hands.

Behind me, the black car pulled away from the curb and followed me at a walking pace.

I called Libby.

She answered on the second ring.

"Where are you?"

"On the corner by the building. I need a ride."

"Stay on the phone. Don't get in a car with a driver."

"How did you know that part?"

"Because you sound like you're talking to a hostage taker."

"I'm talking to my mother-in-law."

"Same thing," Libby said. "I'm ten minutes out."

She made it in eight minutes.

Her old gray hatchback came around the corner with one headlight dimmer than the other, and she jumped out, took my duffel, and put me in the passenger seat.

Constance's car turned off at the next light.

"You signed it?" Libby asked, pulling out.

"I signed it."

"Good," she said. "I'm going to kill him slowly, later. Right now, you're on my couch."

I laughed, and then I was crying, and she handed me a napkin from her door pocket without looking.

My phone rang on my knee before I had stopped.

The caller ID said it was my doctor's office.

I answered it.

"Mrs. Stroud? This is the front desk. I'm sorry to bother you. We've had a request from your husband to transfer your records to the Stroud Private Clinic."

"My husband doesn't have the right to do that."

"He had your signed release form, dated last month."

"I never signed a release form."

"It has your signature on it, Mrs. Stroud," the woman said. "And the transfer went through an hour ago."

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