Rachel's Hope

Chapter Five (#ulink_008dbf65-1282-5f56-abae-b80be24f1ad4)

“Hey, Dad, when did you get home?”

It was Brian, bounding into the living room full of a boy’s endless energy, grinning broadly at his dad, his enthusiasm noisy. Lately, it seemed Brian was often this way around his dad, almost joyous, sharing something private, something Rachel couldn’t quite touch. But why did he have to come in now?

Dear God, why now?

“Hey, man! How’s it going?” David responded brightly, obviously glad to be off the hook with Rachel for a moment. “I got home a while ago. How about you? What’s the word?”

“Nothing, Dad. Hitting the books is all. Doing some research on the Internet. History report. No big deal.”

“School’s always a big deal.”

“Sure, if you say so.”

David chuckled. “You’ll change your tune one of these days.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But, hey, how about you? Mom tell you the news?”

Rachel saw David flinch slightly. His smile froze on his lips. “What do you mean, Brian? Tell me what?”

The words burst from Brian’s lips. “About the baby. You told him, Mom, didn’t you?”

Rachel scarcely breathed. “No, Brian.” She was losing the modicum of control she had over this situation. She didn’t want it to be like this. Everything was collapsing around her. “I haven’t had a chance, Brian. I was going to—”

David pulled himself out of his recliner and stood in the middle of the room as if he were not sure what he should do next. “What is this?” he said. “Rachel, tell me what’s going on.”

She glared at her son. “Brian, go to your room and let me talk to Daddy, would you please?”

“Okay, Mom.” He looked at both of them apologetically. “I’m sorry if I spoiled the surprise. I mean, I figured you already told him.”

As Brian left the room, Rachel steeled herself. It was her trump card, this baby, but she didn’t want to play it now. She didn’t want to hold on to David this way, if there was anything left of their marriage to hold together.

David stood across from her, his body steeled, too, and minced no words. “Rachel, are you pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“In the name of heaven, why didn’t you tell me? What kind of game are you playing?”

“You’re a good one to talk about playing games,” she countered, wishing immediately she hadn’t retaliated.

“Oh, we’re back to that, are we?” David made a helpless gesture with his hands and sat down. “Rachel,” he said solemnly, “what do you want me to do?”

Rachel stared down at her hands. “I don’t know, David. You tell me. What do you want to do?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do, what to think. I suppose we have to go on from here, from this moment. We’ve got to pull things together, you and I. Especially now.”

She spoke with a bitter irony. “You mean, for the baby?”

“Yes, I mean for the baby. For Brian, too. For all of us.”

It was not in Rachel now to respond coolly, to debate and discuss their lives with objectivity. She resented David’s attempt to settle their lives by logic. Didn’t he understand, couldn’t he see, that she was coming apart inside? He wanted to talk about tangible things, about plans, about doing this or that. Rachel was concerned with only one intangible, terribly important fact: David evidently no longer loved her, and he might love—actually might love—somebody else.

“Are you listening to me, Rachel? Didn’t you hear anything I said?”

“Yes, David, I heard you, but it’s too late!” Didn’t everything inside tell her it was too late? All the terrible particles of herself coming apart—the torn bits and pieces of her logical mind, whatever that was, if she’d ever possessed such a thing. Everything inside her was ready to revolt, and she thought she might vomit. She stood as if to head for the bathroom.

“Are you all right?” David asked. “Are you sick, Rachel?”

“I don’t know—no, I’m all right. I’m a little dizzy, that’s all.”

“You should go to bed. Rae, let me help you.” David made a gesture toward her, which she rejected as quickly as it was made. He withdrew, letting her pass by him.

“I’m all right,” she said, waving her hand, dismissing him. “I have to be alone, David. I’ve got to think. I just can’t think tonight.”

He shook his head, his voice heavy with regret. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I really am. I’m sorry for this whole mess.”

She turned and stared at him. The urge to cry was on her again, washing over her like warm water, like wonderfully warm rivers that might drown her. But she held back the tears, the desire to let herself weep in David’s arms. Instead, she asked, “What about her—this girl?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to break it off,” David answered.

“But your feelings. You said you don’t know how you feel.”

“I’ll work it out, Rachel. It’ll be okay.”

She didn’t want to hear this. It wasn’t the answer she needed. “Don’t bother, David,” Rachel said, her voice suddenly high and strangled. “Don’t bother with charity. I don’t want any of it. I just want you out of here. Get out of here—please!” She held the sobs inside herself, the pressure building like a stone in her throat.

David’s mouth tightened as a dazed, incredulous expression settled in his eyes. He was obviously shaken. Could he go so easily, without a fight? For a moment she thought he would argue with her, refuse to leave, even plead with her to let him stay. But she knew he was too proud and hated to appear weak, no matter what. “All right, Rachel,” he said, already moving heavily, dispiritedly toward their room. “I’ll pack a bag and get out. I’ll go, if that’s what you want.”

“Yes,” she said, turning away, going to the window, hugging herself protectively. She was trembling like a rosebud in a tempest.

It was raining finally. The rain poured down and hit the window outrageously, like torrents of tears, like the sudden furious tears in her own eyes.

Chapter Six (#ulink_12fb6ae5-f834-53e5-b851-e69bb4affce0)

Three days after David had gone striding out of their apartment, suitcase in hand and jaw set, Rachel broke out of her self-imposed mourning. It was a balmy, sun-washed day, and she needed to get out.

Not that she could escape the scorching recriminations, the self-pity, blaming herself one moment for her impulsiveness, resenting David the next for actually walking out at her insistence. As if that’s what she wanted, his going. Was it? Who knew? All she knew at the moment, on this breezy, clear day in early November, was that she had to get out of herself, out of the house, away. So she and Marlene drove to Laguna Beach to spend the day.

Laguna was one of their favorite places. Somehow the endless clusters of quaint, colorful buildings perched on the hillsides and the little network of streets had managed to escape that steely, glazed look that had become the characteristic of so much of Southern California. Rachel was tired of the endless stark, cold ribbons of freeway twisting and turning, jutting in and out, stripping the landscape of any natural grace.

Laguna Beach was different. The buildings were clever and original. They looked as if they had a history to them, as if many people had given parts of their personalities to these structures. The colorful little shops were crowded with artists’ paintings—lovely seascapes, beautiful landscapes, portraits and still lifes.

Many artists came here hoping to sell their work, the trained and untrained alike. Rachel adored their paintings, the meticulous portraits of old men from the sea, children in soft, airy dresses, and the tiny, finely crafted canvases of fruit—a single apple or a pear, stark against an ebony background.

Throughout the afternoon, Rachel knew Marlene was bursting with unasked questions. Marlene said nothing but cast frequent sidelong glances at Rachel, no doubt to determine the state of her emotions. Marlene was too kind to bombard her with probing queries about David’s sudden move out of their condo. On the phone the morning after David left, Rachel had spilled out the story in brief choked snatches, leaving it to Marlene to fill in the blanks.

“He’s gone and that’s all there is to it, Marlene,” Rachel had told her friend that morning. “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I just can’t.”