Chapter Eighteen
Heather

In her car in the hospital parking lot, Heather could feel her phone, even though it was buried in her bag. Her father had called earlier, his message awkward and cloying in her ear as she took the hospital elevator down to the lobby.

“Anything at all I can do, you let me know. I’m your family now,” he had said. Now. She had wanted to chuck her phone into the trash bin at the door. But she didn’t. Instead, she broke down and called her husband. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’m at Mom and Dad’s,” Wyland had said when Heather mentioned she’d pick up something for dinner, an excuse to hear his voice and pretend it still meant something. 

“Come over,” he said, suddenly cheery, and she knew his parents must have walked into the room. “Mom has a few more things for the baby.” Her gut turned with Dolores’s hard movements. She agreed only because she knew if she didn’t, Margaret Turnbull would be having the “I just don’t think she really likes us” conversation behind her back.

As she drove to her in-laws’ house, she tried not to think about Vienna in her hospital gown, unmoving and stuck to her bed like a piece of lint. It made it harder being pregnant, knowing she wasn’t entirely out of the woods with Dolores still in her belly, but the worst thing was knowing the parts Heather had played in Vienna’s life had led up to a moment noted for its sadness. Its paralytic loss. 

She turned into the Turnbulls’ driveway behind her husband’s car and took a few breaths. She massaged her neck with both sets of fingers. It was a ritual to calm herself down before Margaret worked her right back up. A futile practice, but one Heather was a slave to.

“There she is!” Owen said, grabbing her by the elbows when he answered the front door. Heather awkwardly patted his back and willed her face to smile. She never addressed him directly, never feeling comfortable enough to call him Owen and feeling too comfortable to call him Mr. Turnbull. So, she continued to treat him like a man whose name she could never quite remember, and the effect made her feel overwhelmingly stupid.

“Hey,” Wyland said as Owen directed her to the living room. He stood up and kissed her on the cheek. She watched his mother watching them, pride galloping through the veins in her un-still hands. You have no clue, Heather thought as she smiled at her mother-in-law, and she took the kiss for Margaret’s sake.

Heather sat down next to Margaret on the couch in front of a sweating glass of water. She knew it was for her because in the Turnbull house, drinking never meant water unless, of course, it was mixed with something stronger. She gulped it down, relished the feel of it cooling through her chest and wiped her lips with her fingers. She always forgot the water part, how she was supposed to walk around with a life-sized bottle of the stuff like other pregnant women so when she found herself with a glass, it took all she had to keep from swallowing the whole thing down. 

Heather looked up to everyone staring at her.

“Uh, so I was just telling the boys that Betheny mentioned there’s this 3D ultrasound you can get at these boutique sonogram places,” Margaret said. She handed her daughter-in-law a napkin, and Heather ignored the way it stung to receive it. “She did a little research for us and found one at our mall. Wasn’t that sweet of her?” Margaret asked, a fresh Seven and Seven delivered into her hand by her husband. 

Heather nodded and smiled and tried to ignore the image of Margaret’s other daughter-in-law in a Donna Karen pantsuit at the Turnbull’s Christmas party two years ago, telling Heather that going on a no carb diet wasn’t as scary as she’d think. She was thankful Betheny and Wyland’s brother, Webber, lived three hours away. 

“So?” Margaret asked, a blinding strip of teeth flashing from her mouth.

“So...what?” Heather asked. Owen laughed and shook his head. He placed his hand on his son’s shoulder, and with a “Your wife,” headed to the bar in the corner of the living room to refill his drink. Heather felt her face turn a blistered shade of crimson.

“The ultrasound. Owen and I got you this and would love to have a copy of the picture.”

Margaret released her fingers from her short auburn do and retrieved an envelope from the bag of pink baby clothes. 

Heather took it, remiss to read “Sweet Memories Ultrasound Shop” on the front of it. Inside was a gift certificate to “see the future, your bundle of joy.” Heather swallowed. 

“Margaret, thank you but we’ve already had all our ultrasounds, and I’ve read that doing them unnecessarily can cause harm...”

“Heather’s just worried that the gift is too expensive,” Wyland butted in. The look was one everyone could read, even Owen who leaned against the bar and leisurely curled his right foot around his standing ankle.

“Oh. Oh, well don’t be silly. Money’s no object, especially with our little one on the way.” Maragaret placed her manicured hand on Heather’s belly. The motion was suffocating. Heather looked at the hand with its opalescent pink nails, its bobble-headed diamond balancing on a thin band. It was a gesture that poked holes in her theory that Dolores was all hers. It wasn’t true. Dolores belonged to everyone.

“I’m sorry. I need a little air,” Heather said. She grabbed her bag, tossing the certificate inside it and walked out to the foyer. She could hear Wyland excuse himself as she stepped into the night. She was mid-way down the walk when he called to her.

“What was that?” he whispered at her, already at her side. She turned and looked at him. She did something she was loathe to do. Heather put herself in her husband’s shoes.

“You’re scared,” she said. She licked the sweat about her lip. The salt battered her tongue. She wished she still had her glass of water.

“What? Scared of what?” Again, he became the boy, the one she used to know, but this time he didn’t change back. Wyland kneaded his finger into his thumb, and in the light from the lamps snaking down the walkway, his wedding ring glinted at her.

“This.”  She placed her hands on her belly. It was comfortable, quiet. She thought of Dolores peaceful in sleep. “And being married. Maybe knowing there’s no more room to sit and wallow in your past or try and change it.” She didn’t want to listen to herself. But she knew if she expected her husband to, then she’d have to do the same. “She had a miscarriage,” Heather said. 

“Oh.” He looked almost pained.

“Yeah.” 

“Did she...ever say whose it was?” He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking down the quiet street, probably contemplating breaking out into a run depending on what she said next.

“Yes.” She left it at that and watched his shoulders break, his spine give out. He started to cry. It’s hard keeping something like that inside, she thought. She knew it from experience because in every space inside of her, something or someone lived. Her mother, her old house, her father’s furry clients, Ronnie’s mocking tone, Dolores’s thrusting elbows. Vienna and her ghost-white face. Vienna and her lips moving, saying she misses the feeling of being new. Heather did too.

“Heather, I’m—I’m so sorry. You don’t believe me,” he said before she could say she didn’t. But on some level, she did. She could have done the same thing, often felt like doing the same thing. Find some guy, have a fling with him behind her husband’s back. Laugh when she thought of telling Amber and Rachel what she was up to in her spare time. But she never did it because she couldn’t work up the confidence and because she had come to realize there was always more power in playing the victim.

She felt ashamed realizing this, even though it was her husband who was hunched over, holding on to his knees like he might vomit. Heather had learned it from her mother, the simple act of widening her eyes and pretending it was the world’s fault for breaking her down. She had pretended the passivity in it was stronger, meant more than taking any real action. But it was also the tactic that hurt the most because defying the world meant losing the world, and all she was left with was her misery.

“It’s okay,” Heather said rubbing Wyland’s back. He flinched at the feel of her hand. They hadn’t been intimate in months besides a few forced acts of public affection. 

“He’s right. Dad’s always been right,” Wyland gasped. He came up for air, straightened upright. “I’m a screw up, Heather. I’ve damaged my life, Vienna’s, yours. And he’s always said how it’s all going to catch up with me, and it is. But you have to—you have to believe this, Heather,” he said. A sigh dropped from his chest, and Heather could feel it dropping from her own. “I love you. And I don’t want to be this way.” He rested his head on her shoulder, and she felt the back of it, the curls she had sheared off weeks before. The thought clung to her lids, and she closed her eyes, remembering her father and mother in a kitchen, hair clippings on the floor. How you could always find that one person you wanted to lose more than anything.

“I know,” she said. And then she stepped away and looked into his eyes. “I know Wyland. You were always—I guess you were good to me because you saw something you liked. Something you needed.” She paused and tried to measure up her words carefully, afraid they’d spill over. “But I was never in control of anything.” Heather released air from her lungs and tasted the honesty coiled in each puff of air. “And I’m definitely not in control of anything now. I just—I can’t be with you anymore, Wyland.”

“But Heather, what will they think if—”

“What will you think if I stay with you?” she asked. “Would you respect me for that? Would you think I’m making the right decision for me, for her,” she said, her hand already calming her stomach. “Forget the rest of the world, Wyland. Let’s just do something for ourselves for once.” He watched as she walked to the Corolla and started the car. His eyes were still on her as she turned over the engine and backed out, navigating the Turnbulls’ wordless street.

Her heart. It was everywhere.

#

HE DIDN’T COME HOME. Not the next day, or the one after that. On the third he must have stopped by the house because his clothes had gone missing from the closet, but Frankenstein was still thudding about, keeping her company. She was grateful Margaret was allergic to cats.

Heather spent her days lonely but almost gratefully so. She saw a movie by herself, sat outside and listened to two birds arguing at each other, drove to the grocery store then had lunch at a cafe dangerously close to Turnbull Realty. She didn’t filter her days according to her situation. She just lived and took joy in what living really felt like.

She thought about calling Vienna, but she didn’t. She couldn’t, not yet anyway. It was selfish wanting to put reality out of her mind for a time, but she just wanted a glimpse of existing with only Dolores, and she wasn’t prepared to let anything take that away from her, especially her guilt. 

She stepped into the nursery the day she was officially eight months pregnant.

The half-painted walls were a shade of meringue, and near the window were two streaks of paint—a light pink and a cream. Wyland had made the streaks with his brush to compare the colors, but there was something about yellow that had won Heather over. She touched the wall as she looked out the window into their side yard and wondered if her daughter would ever do the same, wishing she were somewhere else.

Heather tackled the crib on her own, a job she was expecting to be a lot more difficult than it was. She washed up the bags of pink and folded and put away blankets, layettes, and vibrant-colored burp cloths. She set out the silver-plated piggy bank her father had sent because even though her mind unsettled having to think about him, her heart would unsettle even more if she denied her daughter a chance to know her grandfather.

When she was finished, she looked around and decided it was a pleasant room even with its uneven walls. To treat herself, she grabbed her purse and drove to the mall to see her daughter’s face.

It wasn’t that she had hated the gift when Margaret gave her the certificate. In fact, it was something she had wanted but feared telling Wyland about because she knew he’d think it was a frivolous expense. What had set her off was the finality, the no turning back abruptness of having to take inventory of her child’s nose, and eyes, and mouth. She was already in the middle of her third trimester, so it was foolish to think this way, but the world her daughter would be entering had a way of batting at her thoughts.

It didn’t matter though because Dolores was beautiful. And everything else had a way of flickering to ash as Heather stared at the screen and watched her daughter open and close her mouth. 

“What’s her name?” the technician asked as she guided the wand across Heather’s sticky belly.

“Dolores.”

“Sorrows,” the technician said.

“You’re good.”

“Comes with the job.” 

Heather smiled. She had picked it because it was an odd way to name a child, to give her firstborn the burden of everything Heather had ever endured. But her thoughts on the name were changing because it was the sorrowful things that seemed to break open while watching two birds argue over a berry, washing a pair of pink pajamas, or stroking her face against Frankenstein’s back. It was the sorrowful things that showed Heather just how beautiful the littlest wins could be.

“A beautiful name,” the technician added, and Heather had to agree with her. 

She walked out into the mall and let her belly guide her. She was hungry again, and the trail mix she stashed in a plastic bag inside her purse couldn’t convince her to give it a try. So, she walked to the food court and absorbed the colors, the gracious scent of fried foods, and this time, nothing overwhelmed her. Except for when she bumped into a table where she found Amber sitting alone.

“Oh, for the love—” Amber said, her mouth full of chewed-up sandwich. Heather hadn’t recognized her at first, but there was no overlooking her bright red hair, even if dirty strands of it hung against a makeup-free face.

“I’m sorry,” Heather mumbled. She started to head to Wong Palace to drown the awkwardness in sweet and sour chicken, but Amber stopped her.

“No. I’m sorry.” Amber pushed the chair next her to give Heather a place to sit. She removed her purse from the seat and sent it to the ground, a dangerously expensive leather bag making friends with the floor. “I should have told you. All of it.” Amber took another bite of sandwich and didn’t bother wiping the mayonnaise from her face. Heather grabbed a napkin and wiped it for her. “Thanks,” Amber whispered to the remains of her sandwich.

“It wasn’t your responsibility. He should have told me.” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t on purpose and not for some lame reason like Rachel telling me not to. I never listen to that twit,” Amber said, keeping her eyes on a couple sitting a few tables over with their little boy. “When you came back, Heather, I thought I had my chance, you know. Here I was, the doctor’s wife living it up in Applewood, leading our neighborhood playgroup, putting on dinners for my husband’s colleagues. I thought...I thought I had a chance to show that witch Heather Hammel who had really made it in this world, but you know what? I’ve made absolutely nothing.” She coughed into her hand, and Heather noticed the topless orange bottle next to Amber’s soda. “My claim to fame is marrying right and having a working uterus.” Amber trailed off and followed Heather’s gaze.

“How many did you take?” Heather asked. She reached for the bottle, but Amber stopped her.

“Haven’t yet.” Amber went back to her sandwich, eating quietly while Heather let her words line up.

“You know, you were always a kind person, Amber. When we were younger, you were always...good.” Heather thought back to the girl Amber had been—unconfident, a bright red thumb sticking out from the rest of her classmates. But she always had Heather’s back, and Heather figured if she hadn’t been so mean, so dominating, that maybe Amber would have had a chance to thrive. “You’ve always been better than me.”

Amber didn’t look at her, but Heather could still see her eyes well up. “Well, then, you must be pretty crappy,” she laughed, and Heather laughed too. Amber wiped beneath her eyes, the lines around them, radiating, glistening.

“Can’t argue there.” Heather hoisted her bag to her lap and dug around for the sonogram picture. She handed it to Amber, who smiled and mouthed the word “beautiful.”

“That’s what I’ve been told,” Heather said. Amber studied the picture, traced Dolores’s miniature nose with her finger. 

“How are things with Wyland?” Heather thought she was prepared for the question, but it snuck around her shoulder with no warning. There was dread in her belly, harsh enough to scar her. Against all reason, she just wanted to lie down next to her husband in bed and close her eyes.

“Staying at his parents. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“You and me both.” They sat for a while, unwillingly confronted with the weight of their decisions. Heather eventually got up and loaded a tray with sweet and sour chicken. She finished it as Amber dug into her cheesecake and all noise in the food court was blocked out, the two women chewing through their thoughts.

When the plates were empty and each sat back in their chairs, their bubbles burst.

“I need rehab,” Amber said to no one.

“I need a therapist.” 

Amber smiled and shook her head. “Ditto.” 

They got up to leave, throwing the remains of their meals in the trash and walked single file out into the afternoon sun. In the parking lot, they hugged. Not the kind they used to do in Amber’s circular driveway, her polished nails pinching into the soft flesh of Heather’s back, but the kind that enveloped them both until they weren’t sure where the dividing line stood.

“You know how to paint a wall?” Heather spoke into Amber’s diamond earring.

“What color?”

“Yellow.”

“Okay, yeah. I can do yellow.” 

“Come over tomorrow if you can. Dolores’s room,” Heather said, and Amber got into her SUV, rolling the window down when Heather tapped on the glass. “I was just thinking how Rachel mentioned paint fumes are right up there with mercury poisoning for a fetus.”

“Rachel who?” Amber said with a smirk. “Hey, do me a favor.” She stretched to the passenger’s side to rummage through her purse. She handed Heather the pills through the window, and Heather took the warmed plastic bottle in her hands. “Throw them out. I have another long night at the hotel, and I, well, I want to make sure I’m up and ready to paint tomorrow.” Heather nodded. They said their goodbyes, and Heather watched Amber, such a tiny woman, manage a car that was entirely too big for her with ease.

In the Corolla, Heather put the bottle in her cup holder and drove to the gas station. She threw the bottle away and listened to the pills rattle on the way down. She filled up her car, and as she went to sit back inside, her phone dinged with a voice message from her father.

“I’m at your mother’s. Please come see me.”

She instantly regretted throwing away the bottle.

#

TIME HADN’T DONE ENOUGH to destroy him. Standing in a circle of sunlight in her mother’s front yard, Heather watched her father shield his eyes with his strong, tanned arm. He was as tall as she had remembered, and his hair was the same—ashy brown, parted at the right. But his temples were graying.

Heather pulled in behind a red Taurus, presumably his rental car, and sucked down an endless supply of air. Her hands were still shaky after nearly rear-ending a truck. Her thoughts had gotten lost at the possibility of looking into her father’s eyes. She swallowed a ball of tears and tore at a loose thread in her shirt to keep from crying.

“Heather,” he said when he heard her silence the engine and shut her car door. He didn’t walk toward her, knew enough to keep his space. A small win.

“So, why?” she asked. She didn’t want to dance around the fact that he was standing back in Burling Gates, tangoing through the “You look great!” and “How was the flight?” nonsense that didn’t mean a thing to either of them.

“Her lawyer called yesterday after he read about her funeral. She left the house to me.” Pummeled. Heather looked down at her feet—the same spot Vienna had maneuvered with her wedge sandals—and expected to see bits of herself all over the walkway. 

“Apparently, she had called him up and made arrangements a few months ago after watching an episode of Law and Order. I don’t know, your mother...”

“Your wife.” Heather looked into his eyes now and noticed what her mind would never allow her to see when she would fashion his face from old memories. Sadness.

“Yeah. Yes.” He finally removed the hand shielding his face and wrapped his arms around his chest. The white polo looked sharp on him. His khakis were impeccably creased even after hours of riding in the air. Ronnie must be a genius with an iron, Heather thought, and her eyes involuntarily rolled. 

“I should have called first, I know, but when her lawyer called yesterday, I just figured...I guess I figured you wouldn’t want to see me. I thought it would be better if I just showed up.”

“Is it?” Heather asked.

“I don’t know. All I know is that I went earlier to the lawyer’s, signed the papers, and the house is in my name. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

“Except the fact that you get everything, I get nothing. And you did absolute jack for her.” Heather lied hard enough to feel it slither between her teeth. She didn’t care that her mother hadn’t put her in her will. But she did care that her father seemed to savor playing the hero.

“Please, Heather, don’t be angry. She loved you. I love you, too.”

“Sure.” Heather looked at the gnome at the front of the house staring through her. “How are you going to clean it up? She leave you a genie in a lamp, too?”

“She left a note,” he said, ignoring her question. “It said, ‘Screw you.’ It also said, ‘Take care of her.’” Her father moved toward her, and she let her feet make the first reaction. She stumbled backward a bit, and her cheeks burned when she saw his hand outstretched with a yellow post-it note. It was written in her mother’s handwriting. She lightly traced the letters, afraid to break them. “I cashed in my 401K.”

Heather snorted and caught the laugh with her hand. “And I bet your girlfriend was absolutely thrilled by that.”

“My girlfriend left me.” It was his turn to study the ground, and when he did, she could see the coin-sized bald spot spreading at the back of his head. “Said she was tired of me living in the past.” 

“Funny you live in it now when you didn’t back then.” Heather turned to her car but didn’t move any further. She felt nailed into her mother’s parched lawn.

“I’m moving back. I’m going to start a grooming business here after I sell the house.” She wanted to turn around and tell him to just fly back to Maryland where he belonged, but she felt tears and would have rather died than let him see them. “I want to know you, Heather. I want to know your little girl.” All of it came out of her, through her, and she could feel the gnome watching her belly quaver with her fear, its current of pain. She felt her father’s hand on her back.

“I love you,” he said again, and this time she didn’t brush it off, she felt it, and she couldn’t stop her body from surrendering its fight. 

Heather didn’t stop herself from burying her swollen face into his shoulder, where she watched her world go dark.