Harvesting the Heart (65 page)

My
first confession was in fourth grade. We had been coached by the
nuns, and we waited in line, saying our act of contrition before
going into the confessional. The chamber was tiny and brown and gave
me the sinking sense that the walls were coming in around me. I could
hear the breathing of Father Draher, coming through the latticed
metal that separated us. That first time, I said that I had taken the
Lord's name in vain and that I had fought with Mary Margaret Riordan
over who would get the last chocolate milk in the cafeteria. But when
Father Draher didn't say anything, I began to make up sins: I had
cheated on a spelling quiz; I had lied to my father; I had had an
impure thought. At that last one Father Draher coughed, and I did not
know why at the time, since I hadn't any idea what an impure thought
was—it was a phrase I'd heard in a TV movie. "For your
penance," he said, "say one Our Father and three Hail
Marys." And that was that; I was starting with a clean slate.

How
many years has it been since I have had to make up sins? How many
years since I realized that an endless number of rosaries can't take
away the guilt?

The
lights are all off at the house, even in Nicholas's study. Then

I
remember what Astrid said. He is trying to get a good night's sleep.
I feel a pang of conscience: maybe this would be better done some
other time. But I don't want to put it off anymore.

I
stub my toe on Max's walker, which is stuffed into the corner of the
hallway. Soundlessly I move up the s'tairs and tiptoe past the
nursery to the door of our bedroom. It is ajar: Nicholas will be able
to hear Max if he cries.

This
is what I have planned: I will sit on the edge of the bed and fold my
hands in my lap and poke Nicholas so that he wakes up. I will tell
him everything he should have known from the start, and I will say
that I couldn't let it go any longer and that I'll leave him now to
think about it. And I'll pray for kindness the whole way home.

I
am betting it all on one turn, I know that. But I don't see any other
way out. Which is why when I creep into the bedroom and see Nicholas,
half naked and wrapped in our pale-blue comforter, I don't just sit
on the edge of the bed. I can't do that. If things don't work out for
the best, at least I'll be able to know where his heart lies.

I
kneel beside the bed and tangle my fingers in the thick sheaf of
Nicholas's hair. I put my other hand on his shoulder, amazed at how
warm his skin is to the touch. I slip my hand down to his chest and
feel the hair spring against my palm. Nicholas groans and stretches,
rolling over on his side. His arm falls across my own.

Moving
very slowly, I touch my fingertips to his eyebrows, his cheekbones,
his mouth. I lean forward until I can feel his breath on my eyelids.
Then I inch closer until my lips brush his. I kiss him until he
begins kissing me back, and before I can step away he wraps his arms
around me and pulls me to him. His eyes fly open, but he does not
seem surprised to find me there. "You cleaned my house," he
whispers.

"Our
house,"
I say. His hands are hot against me. I stiffen and pull away, sitting
back on my heels.

"It's
okay," Nicholas murmurs, propping himself against his pillows.
"We're already married." He looks at me sideways and gives
me a lazy smile. "I could get used to this," he says. "You
sneaking into my bed."

I
stand up and catch my reflection in the mirror. Then I rub my palms
on the legs of my jeans and sit gingerly on the edge of the bed. I
wrap my arms close, hugging myself tight. Nicholas sits next to me
and slides an arm around my waist. "What's the matter?" he
whispers. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

I
shrug his hand away. "Don't touch me," I say. "You
aren't going to want to touch me." I turn and sit cross-legged
opposite him. Over his shoulder, I watch myself in the mirror.
"Nicholas," I say, seeing my own lips move over words I
never wanted to hear. "I had an abortion."

His
back stiffens, and then his face sets, and finally he seems to be
able to exhale. "You
what?"
he
says. He moves closer, and the rage that darkens his features
terrifies me. I wonder if he will grab me by the throat. "Is
that
where
you were for three months? Getting rid of my child?"

I
shake my head. "It happened before I met you," I say. "It
wasn't your child."

I
watch expressions flicker across his face as he remembers. Finally,
he shakes his head. "You were a virgin," he says. "That's
what you told me."

"I
never told you anything," I say quietly. "That's what you
wanted to believe." I hold my breath and tell myself that maybe
it won't make a difference; after all, Nicholas had been living with
his other girlfriend before he decided to marry me, and these days
very few women come to marriage untouched. But then again, not all
women are Nicholas's wife.

"You're
Catholic," he says, trying to fit the pieces together. I nod.
"That's why you left Chicago," he says.

"And
that's why," I add softly, "I left Max. The day that I
went—the day he fell off the couch and got that nosebleed—I
figured I had to be the worst mother around. I had killed my first
child; I had hurt my second. I figured no mother was better than
someone like me."

Nicholas
stands up, and I see in his eyes something I've never seen before.
"You may be right about that," he says, speaking so loud I
think the baby will wake. He grabs me by the shoulders and shakes

me
violently, so hard that my neck wrenches and I cannot see straight.
"Get out of my house," he says, "and do not come back.
What else do you want to get off your chest? Are you wanted for a
murder rap? Are you hiding a lover in the closet?" He lets go of
my arms, and even in the dark I can see the ten perfect bruises left
by his clenched fingers, still glowing with his pain.

He
sinks onto the edge of the bed as if his weight has suddenly become
too much for him to bear. He bends down and holds his face in his
hands. I want to touch him, to take away the ache. Looking at him, I
wish I had never spoken. I reach out my hand, but Nicholas flinches
before my skin brushes his.
Ego
te absolvo.
"Forgive
me," I say.

He
takes the words like a brutal blow. When he lifts his head, his eyes
are red-rimmed and brimming with fury. He stares at me, seeing me for
what I really am. "God damn you," he says.

^chapter
36

_Nicholas

shifting
indifference of his eyes. "It's great to see you, Nicholas,"
Oakie says. "Amazing, isn't it, how you work in the same town
and still never get the chance to see your old friends."

Nicholas
smiles and nods. He does not consider Oakie Peterborough an old
friend; he hasn't since he was nineteen and found him with a hand
down Nicholas's own girlfriend's pants. "I'm hoping you can give
me some answers," Nicholas says. "You practice family law,
don't you?"

Oakie
sighs and leans back. "Family law—what a crock. What I do
doesn't keep families together. Sort of a contradiction in terms."
He stares at Nicholas, and his eyes widen in realization. "You
don't mean for yourself," he says.

Nicholas
nods, and a muscle jumps at his jaw. "I want to find out about
getting a divorce." Nicholas has lost a lot of sleep over this
and has come to a decision with blinding clarity. He doesn't give a
damn what it costs him, as long as he gets Paige out of his life and
gets to keep Max. He is angry at himself for letting down his guard
when Paige came into the bedroom last night. Her touch, the lilac
smell of her skin—for a moment he was lost in the past,
pretending she'd never left. He almost forgave the past three months.
And then she told him the one thing he would never forget.

He
starts shaking when he thinks of another man's hands on her body,
another man's child in her womb, but he believes that with time the
shock will pass. It's not really the abortion that upsets him. As a
doctor, Nicholas spends so much time and effort saving lives that he
can't personally support the decision to have an abortion, although
he understands the motives of the pro-choice camp. No, what unnerves
him is the secrecy. Even if he could listen to Paige's reasons for
terminating a pregnancy, he couldn't understand hiding something like
that from one's own husband. He had a right to know. It might have
been
her
body,
but it was
their
shared
past. And in eight years, she never thought enough of him to mention
the truth.

Nicholas
spent the early morning trying to push from his mind the image of
Paige begging for mercy. She had been shadowed by the mirror, so that
there were two of her, her words and actions mocking her like a
clown's silhouette. She had looked so fragile that Nicholas couldn't
help but think of the wispy heads of dried dandelions,
vulnerable to a breath. One word from him, and he knew she would fall
apart.

But
Nicholas had enough anger pulsing through his blood to block out any
residual feelings. He was going to beat her at her own game, taking
Max before she could use the poor kid to absolve her of guilt. He was
going to get a divorce and drive her as far from him as possible, and
maybe in five, in ten years, he wouldn't see her face every time he
looked at his son.

Oakie
Peterborough blots his meaty lips with his napkin and takes a deep
breath. "Look," he says, "I'm a lawyer, but I'm also
your friend. You ought to know what you're getting into."

Nicholas
stares him down. "Just tell me what I have to do."

Oakie
exhales, a sick sound like that of an overboiled kettle. "Well,
Massachusetts is a state that permits fault in divorce cases. That
means you don't have to prove fault to get a divorce, but if you can,
the property and assets will be divided accordingly."