Liv Constantine - The Last Mrs. Parrish

He stood up, anger in his eyes. “You’ve done it for months, and look where it’s gotten you. At this rate, you’ll be as big as a house. I want my wife back. I’m calling the service today and getting a nurse here. You will sleep through the nights again and have your mornings back. I insist.”

“But I’m nursing.”

He sighed. “Yeah, that’s another thing. It’s disgusting. Your breasts are like two overblown balloons. I don’t want your tits hanging to the floor. Enough is enough.”

I stood on shaky legs, nausea overtaking me, and ran to the bathroom. How could he be so cruel? I took my robe off again and examined myself in the full-length mirror. Why hadn’t I noticed all that cellulite before? I took a hand and swiped at it on one of my thighs. Like jelly. Pushing both hands on my stomach was like kneading dough. He was right. I turned around and looked over my shoulder, my eyes drawn to the dimpling in my buttocks. I had to fix this. It was time to return to the gym. My eyes rested on the breasts my husband found disgusting. I swallowed the lump in my throat, got dressed, and went downstairs. Picking up the grocery list sitting on the counter, I added another item: formula.

Margarita had prepared a breakfast buffet that morning to rival the Ritz. When Jackson came in, he filled his plate to overflowing with pancakes, bacon, strawberries, and a homemade muffin. I thought about the journal he’d just given me and felt the heat spread to my face. He was crazy if he thought I’d have him dictating what I ate. I’d start my diet tomorrow and on my own terms. I grabbed a plate and picked up the fork on the pancake platter, ready to take one, when he cleared his throat. I looked over at him. He inclined his head ever so slightly toward the fruit platter. I took a deep breath, stabbed three pancakes with my fork, and dropped them onto my plate. Ignoring him, I grabbed the syrup and poured until they were swimming in it. As I lifted the fork, I held his gaze as I stuffed a fluffy slice of pancake slathered in syrup into my mouth.

I paid for my little act of rebellion. Not right away, because that wasn’t his style. By the time he executed his plan three weeks later, I had nearly forgotten about it. But he hadn’t. My mother was coming for a visit. After my father died, she came often — every few months — and I encouraged her visits. The night before she was due to arrive, he exacted his revenge. He waited until Tallulah had been put down and came into the kitchen, where I was talking to Margarita about the menu for dinner the next night. He was standing in the archway, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, with an amused expression on his face. When she left, he walked over to me, pushed a lock of hair from my forehead, then leaned down to whisper in my ear.

“She’s not coming.”

“What?” My stomach turned to jelly.

He nodded. “I just got off the phone with her, let her know you’re not feeling well.”

I pushed him away from me. “What are you talking about? I feel fine.”

“Oh, but you don’t. You have a terrible stomachache from stuffing yourself with pancakes.”

Was he really still holding a grudge from weeks ago? “You’re joking, right?” I said, hoping he was.

His eyes were cold. “I’ve never been more serious.”

“I’m calling her right now.” He grabbed my arm before I could move.

“And tell her what? That your husband lied? What would she think of that? Besides, I told her that you had food poisoning and asked me to call her. I assured her you would be better in a few days.” Then he laughed. “I also mentioned that you’d been a bit stressed and that having her visit so often was putting a strain on you, that maybe she should let a little more time elapse between visits.”

“You can’t do this. I won’t let you make my mother think I don’t want her here.”

He squeezed my arm harder. “It’s done. You should have heard how sad she sounded. Poor, dumb hick.” He laughed.

I wrenched my arm away and slapped him. He laughed again.

“Too bad she didn’t die when your father did. I really hate having in-laws.”

I exploded. I raked my nails down his face, wanting to tear it to shreds. I felt wetness on my hands and realized I’d drawn blood. Horrified, I backed away, my hand to my mouth.

He shook his head slowly. “Now look what you’ve done.” Pulling his phone from his pocket, he held it in front of his face. It took me a minute to realize what he was doing. “Thanks, Daph. Now I have proof that you have an explosive temper.”

“You intentionally provoked me?”

A cold smile. “Here’s a little tip: I will always be ten steps ahead of you. Keep that in mind when you decide you know better than I do what’s good for you.” He moved toward me, and I stood rooted to the floor, too shocked to move. He touched my cheek, and the look in his eyes grew tender. “I love you. Why can’t you see that? I don’t want to punish you — but what am I to do when you insist on doing things that are bad for you?”

He’s crazy. How did it take me this long to see that he’s crazy? I swallowed hard and flinched when his fingers traced the tears running down my cheeks. I ran from the room, grabbed a few things from the bedroom, and went into one of the guest rooms. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror — white as a ghost, whole body shaking. Moving into the guest bathroom, I washed my hands, cleaning his blood from under my nails, and tried to come to grips with how I had let myself lose control. I’d never done something like that before. His cavalier comment about my mother dying made me realize there was no going back after tonight. I had to leave. Tomorrow I would pack up the baby and go to my mother’s.

After a few minutes, I went in to check on Tallulah and found him standing over her crib. I hesitated at the doorway, something about the picture not striking me as quite right. His stance was menacing; his face in shadow, ominous. My heart beat faster as I approached.

He didn’t turn toward me or acknowledge my presence. In his hands he held the enormous teddy bear he had bought for her when she was born.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

As he spoke, he continued to stare at her. “Did you know that over two thousand babies die of SIDS each year?”

I tried to answer, but no words would come.

“That’s why you put nothing in the crib.” Then he turned to face me. “I keep telling you not to put her stuffed animals in with her. But you are so forgetful.”

I found my voice. “You wouldn’t dare. She’s your child, how could you—”

He threw the bear onto the rocking chair, and his expression was neutral once again. “I was just joking around. You take everything so seriously.” He grabbed both of my hands in his. “Nothing will ever happen to her as long as she has two parents looking out for her.”

I turned from him to watch my baby breathing in and out, and was crushed by her vulnerability.

“I’m going to sit here for a while,” I whispered.

“Good idea. Do some thinking while you’re at it. I’ll be waiting for you in bed. Make sure you don’t take too long.”

I glared at him. “You can’t be serious. I’m not getting near you.”

A thin smile played on his lips. “You might want to rethink that. Tire me out, or I may sleepwalk and find myself back in the nursery.” He stretched his hand out to me. “On second thought, I want you now.”

Silent and dying inside, I took his hand, and he led me to our room and to the bed. “Take your clothes off,” he commanded.

I sat on the bed and began to pull off my slacks.

“No. Stand up. Do a strip-tease for me.”