The Night I Stopped Waiting for My Husband novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Lilies and a Pen

Harrison never comes to the hospital, Margaret takes Lucy home, and Constance arrives with lilies and a smooth offer to handle everything. Lucy leaves her ring and the ultrasound at the nurses' station. Hook: nine missed calls from Harrison and a voicemail from Rosalind.

Margaret Doyle arrived at six the next morning with a thermos and a bag of pastries.

She was already scolding me from the doorway.

"Sixty-four years old and I get a call at midnight from a nurse," she said. "Next time pick a better hour."

"I'll try to bleed at lunch."

"Good girl."

She pulled the chair to my bed and pushed her red glasses up into her cropped grey hair.

Then she studied the monitor for a full minute.

Then she looked at me.

"Where's the husband?"

"With his brother's widow. It's a long story, and I'm tired of telling it."

"I've heard it in pieces for five years," Margaret said. "Eat your croissant."

I ate half of it. The baby kicked once, hard, and Margaret watched my stomach jump.

"Well, she's opinionated," she said.

"She gets that from you."

"I'd like to claim it."

Harrison did not come that morning.

He texted at ten: Rosalind had a terrible night, I'm staying with her.

The text went on: Doctors say you're stable. I'll come tomorrow, I promise. I love you.

He texted again that evening, and again the next day.

Each message ended the same way, and each one was true, and none of them were here.

On the third morning, the doctor said I could go home on strict bed rest if somebody stayed with me.

"I'll stay," Margaret said. "I have a spare room above the studio and a very rude kettle."

I was in my coat with my hospital bracelet still on when the door opened and the room filled with the smell of lilies.

Constance Merrick came in wearing lavender wool and her pearl earrings, with a driver behind her carrying the biggest bouquet I had ever seen.

My mother-in-law kissed my cheek the way she had kissed it every Sunday for five years.

"Darling," she said. "Why does nobody in this family ever tell me anything?"

She set her gloves down on the blanket.

"Harrison only mentioned it this morning, and I came straight over."

"Hello, Constance."

"Look at you. You're so pale." She turned to the driver. "Put those by the window."

Then she turned to Margaret and gave a gracious smile.

"And you must be the friend. How kind of you to sit up with her."

"I'm the professor," Margaret said. "I taught her to draw."

"Of course. Lucy always spoke of you."

Constance sat on the edge of the bed and took my hand in both of hers.

Her hands were warm and dry and perfectly manicured.

"I've arranged everything," she said. "The family clinic in Brookline has a private suite for you."

"There's a nurse around the clock, and the car is downstairs. You'll be so much more comfortable."

"I'm going home with Margaret."

"Darling, a warehouse? In your condition?"

"She has a kettle."

Constance laughed.

"Then at least let me handle Harrison."

She patted my hand.

"I spoke to your doctor on the way up. Thirty weeks, how wonderful. Does he know about the baby yet?"

"No."

"Who else has been told?" she asked, still smiling.

I hesitated.

"The doctors. Margaret."

"And nobody else? Not Rosalind?"

"No."

Constance squeezed my hand once, then let go.

"Good," she said. "Let's keep it that way until Harrison can hear it properly."

She reached for her phone.

"I'll make a few calls and make sure he's here by dinner."

"Thank you, but please don't."

"Lucy."

"Please don't call him for me."

She studied my face for a moment, and the smile did not change.

"Of course not, darling. It's entirely your decision."

She kissed my cheek again and left the lilies.

When she was gone, Margaret leaned over and sniffed the bouquet.

"That woman has never once asked how you are," she said.

"She did. She said I was pale."

"That's a comment on your coloring."

I almost laughed.

Then I asked a passing nurse for a pen and a spare envelope.

I took the printed ultrasound out of my purse and wrote on the back, in block capitals, the way I used to letter drawings.

Harrison. Our daughter is due in December. I stopped waiting for you on Saturday night.

I'm not angry. I'm finished. Do not tell Rosalind where I am.

I worked my wedding ring off my finger.

It left a pale band that had not seen sun in five years.

I dropped the ring into the envelope, sealed it and handed it to the nurse at the station.

"For my husband," I said. "When he finally gets here."

"Do you want me to ask him to wait?"

"No. He's good at that part."

Margaret took my elbow, and I walked out slowly, carrying my own bag.

An orderly pushed an empty wheelchair behind us in case I needed it.

I did not need it.

I had muted my phone after the third text.

In Margaret's old Volvo, I turned the sound back on.

It lit up before I had finished the screen lock.

Nine missed calls from Harrison, all from the last forty minutes.

Under them was a single voicemail, and the name on it was not his.

It was Rosalind's.

I put the phone to my ear, and her voice came out soft and shaking.

"Lucy, sweetheart, it's me. He's beside himself. Please, please call him back."

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