Liv Constantine - The Last Mrs. Parrish

He spoke with such detachment that my blood ran cold. “You say it like it’s no big deal.”

He shrugged. “It isn’t. That’s why they do the tests, right? So we have a plan. Nothing to worry about.”

I wasn’t finished discussing it. “What if I don’t want to have an abortion? Or what if they say the baby’s fine and it isn’t, or they say it isn’t and it is?”

“What are you talking about? They know what they’re doing,” he said, an impatient edge in his voice.

“When my cousin’s wife, Erin, was pregnant, they told her that her baby was going to have major birth defects, but she didn’t end the pregnancy. That was Simone. She was perfect.”

An exasperated sigh. “That was years ago. Things are more precise now.”

“Still…”

“Damn it, Daphne, what do you want me to say? Whatever I tell you, you come up with an illogical retort. Are you trying to be miserable?”

“Of course not.”

“Then stop it. We’re going to have a baby. I certainly hope this nervous Nellie act goes away before the birth. I can’t abide those anxious mothers who worry about every little thing.” He took a swig from his tumbler of Hennessy.

“I don’t believe in abortion,” I blurted out.

“Do you believe in allowing children to suffer? Are you telling me that if you found out that our baby was going to have some horrible disease, you’d have it anyway?”

“It’s not so black-and-white. Who are we to say who deserves life and who doesn’t? I don’t want to make decisions that only God can make.”

He raised his eyebrows. “God? You believe in a God who would allow your sister to live a life of suffering and then die when she was still a child? I think we’ve seen where God’s position on these things takes us. I’ll make my own choices, thank you very much.”

“It’s not the same thing at all, Jackson. I can’t explain why bad things happen. I’m just saying that I’m carrying a life inside me, and I don’t know if I could terminate, no matter what. I don’t think I’m capable of that.”

He got very quiet, pursed his lips, then spoke deliberately. “Let me help you out then. I cannot raise a disabled child. I know that that is something that I am not capable of.”

“The baby is probably fine, but how can you say you can’t raise a child with a disability or an illness? It’s your child. You don’t throw a life away because it’s not what you consider perfect. How can you not see that?”

He looked at me a long time before answering. “What I see is that you have no idea what it’s like to grow up normally. We shouldn’t even be having this conversation yet. If — and that’s a big if — it turns out we have something to worry about, we’ll discuss it then.”

“But—”

He put a hand up to stop me. “The baby will be perfect. You need help, Daphne. It’s obvious that you’re incapable of letting go of the past. I want you to see a therapist.”

“What? You’re not serious?”

“I’ve never been more serious. I won’t have you raising our son with all your phobias and paranoia.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Everything is colored by your sister’s illness. You can’t separate that and what it did to you from your present life. You’ve got to move past it. Put it to bed, for God’s sake. Therapy will close the issue once and for all.”

I didn’t want to dredge up my childhood and live through it again. “Jackson, please, I have let go of the past. Haven’t we been happy? I’ll be fine, I promise you. I was just thrown a little. That’s all. I’ll be fine. Really.”

He arched a perfect brow. “I want to believe you, but I have to be sure.”

I gave him a wooden smile. “We’re going to have a perfect baby and all live happily ever after.”

His lips curled upward. “That’s my girl.”

Then something he’d said a moment ago registered. “How do you know it’s going to be a boy?”

“I don’t. But I’m hoping it will. I’ve always wanted a son — someone I could do all the things with that my father never had time to do with me.”

I felt a nervous stirring in my gut. “What if it’s a girl?”

He shrugged. “Then we’ll try again.”

Of course, we had a girl — Tallulah, and she was perfect. She was an easy baby, and I reveled in being a mother. I loved nursing her at night when the house was quiet, staring into her eyes and feeling a connection that I’d never felt before. I followed my mother’s advice and slept when she slept, but I was still more exhausted than I’d anticipated. At four months, she still wasn’t sleeping through the night, and because I was nursing, I’d refused Jackson’s offer of a night nurse. I didn’t want to pump and have her fed from a bottle. I wanted to do it all. But that meant I had less time for Jackson.

That’s when things began to unravel. By the time he fully revealed himself to me, it was too late. He had used my vulnerability to his advantage, like a general armed for battle. His weapons were kindness, attention, and compassion — and when victory was assured, he discarded them like spent casings, and his true nature emerged.

Jackson faded to the background, and all my time and energy was focused on Tallulah. That morning, I’d pulled the scale out from under the vanity, thrown my robe off, and stepped on—139. I stared at the number in shock. I heard the door open, and he was standing there, looking at me with a strange expression on his face. I went to step off, but he put a hand up, walked toward me, and peered over my shoulder. A look of disgust crossed his face so quickly that I almost missed it. He reached out and patted my stomach, raising his eyebrows.

“Shouldn’t this be flat by now?”

I felt the color rush to my face as shame filled me. Stepping off the scale, I grabbed my robe from the floor and threw it on. “Why don’t you try having a baby and see how your stomach looks?”

He shook his head. “It’s been four months, Daph. Can’t use that excuse anymore. I see lots of your friends at the club in their tight jeans. They’ve all had kids too.”

“They probably all had tummy tucks after their C-sections too,” I shot back.

He took my face in his hands. “Don’t get defensive. You don’t need a tummy tuck. You just need some discipline. I married a size four, and I expect you to get back into all those expensive clothes I’ve bought you. Come on.” He took my hand and led me to the love seat in the corner of our bedroom suite. “Sit down and listen.”

He put an arm around my shoulder and took a place next to me on the love seat.

“I’m going to help you. You need accountability.” Then he pulled out a journal.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I picked it up for you a few weeks ago.” Flashing a smile, he continued. “I want you to weigh yourself every day and write it here. Then write down what you’ve eaten in the food journal part here.” He pointed to the page. “I’ll check it every night when I get home.”

I couldn’t believe it. He’d been holding on to this for weeks now? I wanted to curl up and die. Yes, I still wasn’t back to my pre-baby weight, but I wasn’t fat.

I looked at him, afraid to ask but needing to know. “Do you find me unattractive?”

“Can you blame me? You haven’t worked out in months.”

I held back the tears and bit my lip. “I’m tired, Jackson. I’m up with the baby in the middle of the night, I’m tired in the morning.”

He covered my hand with his. “That’s why I keep telling you to let me hire a full-time baby nurse.”

“I cherish that time with her. I don’t want a stranger here at night.”