The Truth (10 page)

“Where have you
been?” Grant startles me when I walk in the front door.

“At the hospital,” I blow him off and go for the staircase.

“In sweatpants? Did your practice change the dress code to casual?”

“Grant, please. Can I just go take a shower? We can talk when I feel less like death,” I speak, not even looking in his direction. I move up a few stairs and then pause, and finally look at him. “What are
you
doing home?”

“My wife didn’t come home last night. You didn’t respond to your messages. I decided to work from home today.”

“Ah.” That’s all I give him before I finish making my way to my bathroom. I close the door, locking it behind me, and lean back against it. Then I sigh, once, twice, three times, trying futilely to relieve some of the pressure I feel exponentially building inside of me.

Knowing Grant is waiting to talk to me, and how much he hates to be kept waiting, I deliberately take my sweet-ass time. I brush my teeth for ten minutes straight making sure each tooth is tartar free and sparkling. I turn the shower temperature to scalding, hoping it will burn away some of the awful I feel. Standing under the steaming cascade of the water, I wait until the hot water runs cold.

I fiddle with my hair for a good twenty minutes to see which messy bun feels the most comfortable on my head. Finally, resigning myself to the fact I have to face Grant, I put on my favorite yoga pants and a t-shirt and head downstairs.

He is in his den when I pass it, and I can hear him on the phone talking business. Hallelujah, extra time. I head straight for the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine.

I am running my finger along the rim of my second glass when Grant emerges. “Are we day drinking now?”

“I have a day off. I don’t see why not? Would you like a glass?”

“No, I have some work to do. Speaking of, are you going to tell me why you aren’t at the office today?”

“I didn’t know I needed a permission slip to take a sick day.”

Grant clenches and unclenches his jaw. “You don’t, but where the hell have you been the past couple weeks? And what is with the fucking childish attitude?”

“Grant, I know.”

“You know?”

“Yes.”

“Alyssa, give me a clue here.”

“The women in your phone. The day you accidentally left your phone here? I found it and it went off in my hand, so I checked it. No wonder you never put that damn phone down—it’s like your little black book of whores.”

“Alyssa, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t I though?”

“They’re just colleagues, business women I have to deal with.”

“Right, business women who send you pictures of their twats? Since when did the Kennedy Empire make the move into porn?”

“That was just some hung up girl, someone I dated a long time ago and can’t accept that it’s over.”

“Grant, I was born at night, but it wasn’t last night. We’ve been married for damn near five years! Why would some little girl you dated years ago still be trying to get with you? If she hasn’t taken a hint by now, you should get a restraining order. Not to mention, based on the pictures, if you dated her years ago, you should be in jail because she would have been a teenager more than six years ago.”

“Stop! I’m not cheating. And why are you going through my phone? I don’t go through your things.”

“I wasn’t just snooping. Here I am making a romantic dinner for my husband, and he isn’t returning my phone messages. Stupid me, I’m upstairs putting on a sexy negligee and I hear your phone. I was just going to bring it downstairs until it went off in my hand. You want to go through my phone?” I slap my cell down on the table. “Go ahead. Unlike you, I have nothing to hide.”

“No, I don’t need to go through your stuff. I trust you, even though you never came home last night—something you could learn from.”

“No! Don’t do that! You don’t get to make me feel crazy. This isn’t all in my head.” I shake my head back and forth.

“I don’t know—it does run in your family.”

I look up at him with a fire burning blue inside me. “Fuck you!” Choosing a time like this to use my mother’s mental health issues to throw in my face? That was just low.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, but I’m not hearing it.

“Oh, you’re going to be sorry! You want to know where I was last night? You want to know why I didn’t come home? Why I am taking one measly sick day to try to get myself together?”

He looks at me expectantly.

“Grant, I was pregnant,” I choke on the word pregnant, but it does nothing to quell the fire.

“Was? Past tense?” He swallows. I hope his guilt tastes like shit on the way down.

“Yes. I had known for a week or so I was pregnant, but I was trying to live in denial. The timing was the worst possible after finding out everything with you. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Finding out everything what with me? There is nothing going on!”

“Shut up! You shut up, now, and let me fucking finish!” My voice is powerful and echoes through the giant room. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit lies to last me a lifetime! I don’t care what you say. I know what I saw on your phone. And I know you were with someone in Vegas. I found her fucking skanky, dirty panties in
my
hotel room, Grant. You want to explain those? And the worst part is I’m a goddamn moron! I actually thought they might have been from the people who stayed there prior to us and maybe the cleaning lady missed them. I almost said something to the hotel, but I just tossed them instead. What a fool I would have looked like! When I went through your phone, I had this moment of clarity where I remembered a million tiny clues along the way that you were cheating. I never wanted to believe you would do that to me. I wanted to believe you loved me!”

“I do love you. Alyssa—”

“Shut up! SHUT UP!” I take a second to catch my breath before I resume. “Grant, I was pregnant and I didn’t even want to tell you. I thought we both wanted a baby! All this time, I thought we were going to start a family. I thought we were happy! I had a miscarriage, and I couldn’t even come to you!”

“You should have come to me about it,” Grant says softly and reaches out to touch my cheek. Images of him and Whitney flash in my mind.

“No! Don’t touch me! Don’t you dare touch me. I don’t want anything to do with you.” I poke a finger hard in his sternum to drive home my next point. “The only thing I want from you is a divorce.” I am about to tell him why. I’m about to admit I saw him with Whitney when he turns on me.

I’ve seen Grant Kennedy truly mad only once in the years we’ve been together. He is usually frighteningly calm. He walks around collected and everything he does is calculated. The single time I saw him lose it was when he didn’t get a huge account he wanted. Grant Kennedy always gets what he wants one way or another. He destroyed his office that day and had it redecorated the next. In his world, you can do anything you want because money fixes everything.

Grant grabs the hand I was jabbing him with, and the next thing I know, my ears are ringing as my head smacks against the drywall. My feet dangle below me like a rag doll and I can’t breathe. Grant is holding me with one hand up against the wall by my throat.

His face is two inches from mine when he speaks. “We are not getting a divorce.” I listen to him, frozen in fear. “If you leave, I will ruin you. I will buy your practice and kick you out. I will blackball you. You will never practice medicine again or have any other respectable career, for that matter.” His breath is hot on my face as I try, to no avail, to take a puff of air into my lungs. He is holding me so tight I can’t get any measure of a breath through my airways.

He finally drops me to the floor when I start flailing my arms. I massage my neck with my hands. Involuntarily, I make a gulping noise and gasp as I finally get the air back into my lungs. “I will make sure your life is a living hell if you so much as mention the word divorce again.”

He turns his back on me, and I can see his shoulders heaving in anger. Grant starts to walk away, and I feel a tiny surge of rebellious courage.

“It already is.” It comes out raspy. He stops dead in his tracks, and I can see him noticeably flinch at my words. Thankfully, he says nothing and continues back to his den.

I want to cry. I want to curl up in a ball on the floor and ball my eyes out. I don’t. I won’t give the monster the satisfaction. That’s what he is. All these years, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I believed in him and in us. I’ve finally seen the monster that lies within Grant Kennedy, and I won’t give him the pleasure of knowing how terrified I am.

“Good morning, Donna.”
I try for cheerful, but it comes out lackluster.

“Hey, you.” She smiles at me, but it’s a sad smile. It’s the sympathy smile you get from people when someone you love dies.

In this case, the person that died might have actually of been me. I feel dead.

“Hey, Donna.” I lean in so only she can hear me. “Is Dr. Andrews free to do a checkup for me today? Can you see if any of our openings line up, please?”

“Sure thing.” She clicks away on her keyboard for a minute or so and then smiles up at me. “She can see you at the end of the day. You both have your last spot of the day available.”

Donna is the only one who knows I lost a baby. She’s the only one Rachel knew she could trust to keep her trap shut about it. She really is a sweetheart. Donna has been with us about a year and she runs the whole show. She’s smart, organized, and keeps us all running on track. On top of it, she’s gorgeous. Just the kind of woman Grant would take on the side. It crosses my mind now every time I see a pretty girl. Would Grant think she’s pretty? Is she his type? Sometimes I wonder if Grant has already had sex with them.

“Perfect. That’ll work.”

After seeing my last client, I get my stuff together to go home. I have a seat in the lab and the tech looks at me oddly. “I need a purple, a yellow, and a white tube, please.”

“Wait a minute?” a smile takes over Robby’s face. “Are you and that hunky husband of yours finally having a baby?” He claps his hands together excitedly.

I look down so our eyes don’t connect. That’s how I avoid crying when I tell someone bad news. If I don’t see the emotions in their face, I can pretend I’m not feeling my own. “Not this time, Robby. It didn’t work out.”

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay. No one really does. Keep it quiet, if you could?” I plead.

“Absolutely. Put your arm right here for me. Make a fist.” He demonstrates making a fist, and I look up at him with a mocking smile. “Perfect, now release it. Sorry, force of habit to talk through the steps.” After he fills the vials, he looks at me questioningly. “What should I put on the label?”

“Oh, just put JD for me, please? Thanks, Robby,” I say squeezing his arm gently. “I appreciate it.”

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” Great, now even he’s giving me the dead dog smile.

I am all setup in exam room three when Rachel walks in. You would think it would be strange to have a friend check out your nether regions, but I’ve been working with Rachel Andrews for the past seven years. She’s been a mentor since I was still a student, and I respect her, so she’s the one I go to with things. We’ve even become close friends over recent events. I’m lucky to have such a great colleague I can count on.

“I’m glad our schedules lined up so I could do the follow-up. How are you holding up?” She doesn’t give me the sad eyes. Rachel has been doing this a long time. She has a good poker face.

“I’m doing all right,” I lie and we both know it. It’s just the standard response.

We chat about clients from today while she completes my exam. “Lys, I will file under JD for you so you can grab the results tomorrow.” JD is what we put for Joan Does.

“Thanks.”

“I really hope it’s all good. I’m sure this is just a fluke. I know you guys tried for a long time, and this must have hit hard, but I’m confident if you got pregnant, it will happen again.”

“I know, I say those same words to patients.”

She picks up the samples and leaves me to get dressed.

Rachel put a rush on the labs, and after a few patients the next morning, I go to pick up the results. I look down the list. Hormones are all good, but something isn’t. Something is definitely not okay.

Don’t ever say or even think to yourself that things in life could’t get any worse. Even thinking it is like a silent challenge to the universe. Things can
always
be worse. I walk into my office and very calmly close the door. I press my forehead against it, still holding onto the door handle, as the first tear slips down my face. I quickly swipe it away with my hand and whip around to face my desk.

I’ve sat at the same desk countless times to deliver the very same ridiculous news I just got.

“I have a sexually transmitted disease?” I whisper through the silence to myself. I drop my head back and could just about laugh. This is a bad joke right? “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” I scream to the ceiling, to God, to anyone. How the fuck can I have a STD? I’m married, for shit’s sake! I’ve slept with one man for the past five years—and there lies the problem. He’s probably slept with half the female population of southern California. I refuse to cry anymore. Now is not the time for tears. I clench my fists so tight, the papers I’m holding crumple and fall to the floor. My blood is boiling so hot, I bet my skin feels feverish to the touch.

It isn’t a life threatening thing I’ve contracted from my wonderful, shitbag of a husband. I will take a pill and it will be gone in a week. It is, however, what most likely caused my miscarriage. I finally got pregnant. Two years of trying, I finally get pregnant, and this is why it doesn’t work out? Because Grant trust-fund-brat, chauvinistic, piece-of-mother-fucking-shit Kennedy can’t keep his goddamn dick in his pants!

I can’t contain the rage brewing inside of me any longer. With one fell swoop, I knock all the pictures of us lining my desk to the ground with a tremendous clatter. Glass shards fly everywhere. I don’t stop there, I can’t. I feel possessed. I’ve been mad. I’ve been sad. I’ve been hurt. What I feel now is not an emotion with a word to describe it. For five minutes, I break shit in my office, anything reminding me of Grant Kennedy gets smashed into a million little pieces. Looking around my office through the red haze of anger, I spot a vase of roses Grant sent. In truth, his secretary probably sent them. That thought only makes me even angrier. I stomp over to the vase, raise it above my head, and smash it on the floor. Fuck you and your flowers Grant! Fuck you!

When I can find nothing else to obliterate that reminds me of him, I collapse against a wall and slide down to the ground. I sit there in silence for a minute, and then out of nowhere, laughter bubbles up. It’s not the good kind of laughter. It’s the crazy kind of laughter, the way I imagine a psychotic killer would laugh just before they dismember you. 

I can barely hear the knock at the door over my laughter. Panic sets in as I look around. What have I done to my office? I just pulled a Grant.

“Just a minute!” I call to the door, scrambling to get myself together. I stand up and smooth out my clothes. I run my fingers under my eyes to make sure there isn’t any makeup running down my face. I crack the door open and say a silent thank you to the heavens that it’s only Rachel.

“Hey, I heard some noise coming from your office. You okay?”

“I’ll be fine.” I try to give her my most reassuring smile.

“Do you want me to take your next patient? You have one in fifteen and I have an opening.”

“No, I’m fine.” I lie and feel guilty immediately. “I just need to tidy up. I’ll be right there.” She looks skeptical as she eyes me through the cracked door. “Hey, I’m fine. I Promise.”

“Okay, take twenty—Norma is on today, I’ll have her stall on the vitals. And don’t forget…” she pauses. “I have a shovel.” I hear her chuckle as she turns to walk away.

She leaves me, and I close the door in a hurry. I pick up everything I can fit into the garbage next to my desk. I gather everything else I can carry.

“Shit!” I slice my finger on some of the glass as I throw it in a huge garbage can in an exam room. I have just enough time to run to the restroom to freshen up.

Heading toward the exam room, I grab the patient file from the nurse as I pass her. I look down at the file. Jones, S. it reads. All right, Ms. Jones, what are we working with? I flip open the file on the way to the room and halt in my steps just short of the door when I read it. Diagnosed a month ago with Chlamydia at the Lisal Clinic. Bile rises in my throat. It can’t be.

Pulling on my emotion camouflage, I walk into the exam room. It’s
her
. I smile a sterile smile. “Hi, Stephanie, I’m Doctor Silver.” I reach out to shake her hand. She’s wearing hooker red nail polish. Shocker. “I see we’re doing a recheck for Chlamydia?” Whore.

She looks mortified. Good. She should. “Yeah, the clinic gave me some gross tasting drink. They said it would take care of it, but told me I should come in for a recheck. I figured I better find a real doctor to make sure it’s gone.”

“Okay, well, we will do a swab to make sure it’s negative.” Grant went slumming with this little girl, and it caused me to lose my baby? “Oh, while I’m thinking of it, did they draw blood or collect a urine sample?”

“Just the urine.”

“No problem.” I smile. “I’ll take care of it. Usually, the lab techs do it but no worries. I’ll just take care of it real quick here. I’ll be right back.”

When I return, I draw her blood. “All right, go ahead and lay back. Bring your bottom to the end of the table. Let your legs fall apart. Good.” Fucking slut, I’m sure you’re used to letting your legs fall apart. Perfectly groomed landing strip, just like Grant likes. How does a low life who goes to the clinic to medicate her STDs afford a perfectly waxed asshole? “I’m going to insert the speculum. You will hear a couple of clicks and then you will feel some pressure.” I click it one too many times on purpose.

“Ouch!”

“Are you okay?” I smile reassuringly. I bet that hurt like a bitch. Good.

“Sure, yeah. I’m fine.” She’s lying. She looks like she’s about to cry. Just wait.

“Okay then. I’m going to insert the swab. I need to scrape the wall to get some cells,” I inform her as I go, just as I would any other patient. I sound as professional as ever, even if I’m being completely unethical and causing her pain on purpose—too bad! I’ve done this a million times. I’ve been a good doctor for years. I have never once not followed protocol. When I insert the swab, an image of Grant plowing into this stupid cunt runs through my head. I scrape the side of her wall so hard she cries out in agony. A little bit of a red catches my eye as blood trickles down the inside of her thigh.

“Sorry about that. You have some scar tissue, probably from the Chlamydia.” Whore. “You may have a bit of light bleeding for a day or so.” I should feel bad, but I don’t. I feel nothing. “Go ahead and get dressed. I’ll be back shortly.”

I am a complete phony. I don’t even recognize myself. The plan that has culminated in my brain isn’t me. It’s pure evil, and I am already resolute on following through with it. My license to practice medicine should be revoked for what I’m about to do. I bag the blood, label it, and drop it for testing in the box. The results are for my own sanity, to make sure there is nothing else I should be worried about, like HIV. I make a mental note to be tested. I don’t even go over to the lab techs for the urine analysis results. There is no need. I’ve already decided on her results myself. Instead, I head into the staff restroom and freshen up to kill time.

A few minutes later, I knock on the exam room door before entering. I walk back in pretending to read over her file looking very serious. I have a seat on a stool in front of her and look up with a giant smile on my face.

“You will get the swab results back in a couple days for the recheck. Someone from the office will call you. I’m sure it will be fine if you took the medication for it. I did want to be the first to congratulate you though.”

“Con…congratulate me?” she stutters. “For having a STD?”

“No, not for that. Congratulate you on being a new mom, you’re pregnant!”

Every ounce of color drains from her face. She says nothing, just stares at me, or through me, I’m not sure.

“Are you okay? Based on your reaction, I take it this is not news you were expecting.” I fake a frown but on the inside, I’m reeling.

“No, not exactly,” she says meekly.

“Do you know who the father is?” She scowls at me. “Sorry, I just mean maybe if you talk to him you’ll feel better about it.”

“Maybe,” she agrees. It’s like taking a bullet. They still talk, apparently, if she wants to tell him. “There is a problem though. We love each other, the father and I that is, but he’s married,” she admits. At least she has the couth to seem ashamed of herself. “He says he going to leave her for me, but they never do, do they?” She asks hopefully.

“Maybe?” I respond, hoping as badly as her he will, in fact, leave his wife. “Talk to him. I’m sure it will be okay,” I encourage her. That is my end game. Maybe if she can give him a child, he will leave me for her. We’ve already established me leaving him isn’t an option. He has made it crystal clear. Getting him to end things might be my only hope to be free from all of this. Grant Kennedy becoming her problem would be the perfect revenge too. Bonus.

“I will. Thank you for listening, Dr. Silver.” She smiles an encouraged smile.

I mirror her hopefulness in my own smile. “No problem. I hope it all works out.” And the truth is I
do
hope it all works out—
for me.

* * *

After everything that’s
happened, I seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere. I’ve always tried to do the right thing, be the better person, but right now, all I can think about is hurting those who have wronged me. I make plans to meet Whitney for lunch the next day. She doesn’t know I know about her and Grant yet, but she’s going to. They can’t speak or text because if one tries to contact the other it gets sent into the abyss of radio waves, thanks to a nifty little feature called block. Then they each just think the other isn’t responding. I may have been naïve and trusting, but I’m not stupid.