My stomach lurched at this news. “One hundred percent mine? How do you know that?”
“Drea says he told Laurel he can’t have kids. Got snipped a couple years ago after a close call of sorts.”
“A vasectomy? How old is he?”
Barry shook his head. “That I don’t know, mate.”
My head spun with all the scenarios I’d been playing in my mind for the past few days: Laurel and I back together; me raising another man’s child; me refusing to raise another man’s child and being no better than Laurel’s father; me breaking up with Laurel and sending her straight into that motherfucker’s arms, only to find out the baby is mine. None of the scenarios I imagined included finding out the baby was mine this early. Then, a horrifying thought entered my mind.
I glared at Barry. “What do you mean you don’t know what she’s planning to do with the baby?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve heard her talking to Drea. Seems she isn’t sure she can hack it being a single mum and all.”
A drop of rain fell on my cheek as I tried to imagine how I got to this point. How did we get here? Did Laurel seriously expect that she would have to raise our child alone?
I clenched my teeth as I digested this thought, then I took a deep breath and nodded as I let it out slowly. “Thanks, man,” I said as my mind scrambled for an excuse to leave. “I’ve got some errands to run, but we should grab a beer tomorrow. I’ll text you later.”
“See you later, mate.”
As I stepped inside the Columbia Gorge Hotel, I was once again reminded of the last time I was here with Laurel. There were at least a dozen other lodging choices I had in Hood River, but I told myself that I came back here because of the familiarity, something I desperately needed now. But this time I stopped in the middle of the lobby and considered turning around. I didn’t need the suitcase Laurel packed for me and had Drea deliver to the hotel.
Then, as I stood in the middle of the warmly lit lobby, surrounded by the scent of freshly cut flowers, an infuriating thought came to me. If Laurel was too drunk to know what or who she was doing that night, didn’t that mean she was too drunk to consent?
“Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Stratton?” the man working the front desk asked cheerfully.
I shook my head, then corrected myself and nodded at him. “Yes. Can you check me out and have someone courier my things to my home address? You can charge the courier to the room. I have somewhere I need to be.”
It was about time I confronted that motherfucker.
As I sat in traffic on I-84, I began to wonder what the fuck I planned to get out of a conversation with Isaac. Did I plan to ask him if he took advantage of my wife? Was that supposed to be the opener for an adult conversation? Or was I just going to attack him without any proof that he’d done anything at all?
What the fuck was I doing?
I shook my head and started making my way to the nearest exit. I was sliding into the same fucking patterns as before: revenge before justice. Had I not learned a single thing from the turmoil Laurel and I had endured?
I punched the steering wheel. “Fuck!”
The sedan in front of me honked their horn in response. Ten minutes later, I finally navigated my way through the traffic and exited the freeway near the Troutdale Airport. I hung a left and got right back on I-84 going east, back to Hood River. Traffic was clear, but my mind was a tangled mess.
I thought about Halo and all the reasons I’d decided to leave. Ultimately, I didn’t like being an information broker.
I knew the apps we made at Halo were not the product we were selling. The users of the apps were the product. The apps were free. We sold data collected through our apps to public relations and advertising agencies.
We had a behavioral psychologist on staff who helped us hone in on the inner workings of the minds and habits of our users. Our job wasn’t to make great apps. Our job was to figure out how to get users to click on more ads and hand over more of their personal information.
The more data we had on our users, the more accurately the users could be segmented into increasingly specific target groups. The more specific the target, the more valuable the data was to the companies that bought it. And since Halo was a social networking app that used scientific research to help people communicate more effectively, our data was in very high demand.
But I didn’t want to spend my life trying to figure out how to get some poor soul to click on an ad or log into their new dating app using Halo. I didn’t want to lure someone in with the promise of never sending another cringe-y text message, just so I could glean targeting information from the content of their messages and profiles and GPS data.
I left Halo because it became something very different than what I created, and it took two years of distancing myself from the company to finally open my eyes to what we’d become. Was I going to leave Laurel for being a different person than the one I married? Wasn’t that what marriage was about, staying with someone through all the changes, the good and the bad?
As I approached our house in Hood River, I was surprised to see my suitcase on the step right next to the front door. The hotel concierge was very quick about getting my things sent to the house. I’d have to make sure to send the desk clerk a nice gratuity.
I pulled my truck into the garage and hit the button on the remote clipped to my visor. Turning off the car, I sat in the truck for a while, trying to make sense of everything: Laurel’s vows, Brandon’s adoption, Beth and Mark’s divorce while Laurel was at OSU, my wedding vows, the murders, the breakdown of my marriage, Laurel leaving, the hate-fuck, telling her I wanted a divorce then disappearing.
I shook my head as I realized I was partly to blame for what happened between Laurel and Isaac. How could we endure all that and still love each other? I couldn’t even imagine a life without Laurel. Losing her wasn’t an option.
I wasn’t fighting for my marriage when I left for Boise last month. I wasn’t even fighting for justice. I was just fighting. It had been me against the world for the last two years and I was just so fucking exhausted.
I let out a heavy sigh and called Jade, who answered on the second ring. “Jade, I need you to compile a list of therapists in southwest Portland who specialize in grief counseling. Send me the list from your new email address.”
“Sure thing. Is everything okay?” she replied in her usual cheery tone.
I was silent for a moment as I contemplated this question. “Yeah… Yeah, I’m okay.”
I wanted to call Laurel and share the epiphany I’d just had. I wanted to ask her if the baby was really mine, and to tell her that there was no way I would let her raise our child alone. I wanted to hold her and tell her that we’d get through this. But every time I looked at her name on my phone, I kept imagining her with him.
I wasn’t ready. I might never be ready to be with Laurel again. But after everything we’d been through, I couldn’t just give up on us. I was going to fight like hell for my marriage this time. And I wasn’t going to do it by confronting Laurel or declaring war on the world.
This time, I had to battle myself.
Just me against my demons. An all out heavyweight brawl. And I had no intention of going down without one helluva fight.
Chapter 6
Laurel
The gym at Hood River Valley High School still bore the faint smell of scorched cinder and ash from the residents who’d sought shelter here during the late-summer wildfires. A table was set up near the entrance with a coffee urn, four pitchers of ice water, and two boxes of donuts. I poured some water into a paper cup and took a seat in the circle of chairs, which had been set up around the basketball key. This must be the gym where Jack practiced with his high school basketball team.
I counted six people already seated. Three more stood to the side of the refreshments table and two more women entered after I did. Including myself, that was a dozen people for fifteen chairs. I hoped the group leader didn’t mak
e us wait too long to start the session. I arrived two minutes before the start of the meeting so I wouldn’t have to make small talk.
I took a seat next to a black gentleman who was busy doing something on his phone. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties. In fact, almost everyone here appeared to be in their thirties or forties. For some reason, I expected a grief group demographic to skew older. It was depressing to see so many people my age suffering the loss of someone they loved.
An Indian woman wearing a maroon cardigan and gray slacks stood behind the chair at the top of the key, grabbing the back for support. “Is everyone ready to begin?” she said, raising her eyebrows as she smiled at the group of three men chatting by the refreshments table.
They quickly joined the group and took a seat across from me. The oldest of them couldn’t be more than fifty years old. Sandy brown hair stuck out the edges of his red and white trucker hat as he crossed his arms and sat back in the plastic yellow chair.
I tried to keep my focus on the Indian woman, but I kept glancing around the group, searching for something I recognized: a clenched jaw, red-rimmed eyes, fidgety hands, incessant foot-tapping. They were all there. The same symptoms in varying degrees, with different faces, different stories.
“Thank you all for coming today. My name is Dr. Anika Jindal. You may call me Anika or Doctor or Dr. Jindal. Your choice,” she said, not taking a seat in her chair yet. “I will not make anyone sign in today, since I’ve found that the first session is more of a survey. Members usually decide if group therapy will work for them in the first session. Many will not find this medium agrees with their personality, and that is totally okay. Next week, we will start signing in. Does that sound okay?”
A soft murmur of agreement rolled through the circle and Jindal nodded decisively.
“Very good. Then, let’s begin,” she said, finally taking a seat in the chair. “First, I want to start off by telling you the purpose of the group, then we can start introductions.”
A woman with long black hair raised her hand. “Can I ask a question?”
“Yes, please, go ahead,” Jindal replied genially.
“Will this meeting always take place at eight p.m.? Because I have to put my kids to bed at 8:30 and my husband gets a little stressed out if he has to do it alone.”
Jindal smiled. “Yes, I’m afraid so. I’ve found that seven p.m. is often too early for most working people, so we only schedule group sessions for eight p.m. now. I’m very sorry if that conflicts with your schedule. Is there someone else who can help your husband in your absence?”
The woman sighed and shook her head. “No. My… My mom is gone. That’s why I’m here. I’m sorry. I can’t stay.”
She gathered her purse off the floor and rushed out of the gym before Dr. Jindal could speak another word. I drew in a deep breath and blinked back tears as my emotions swelled. Everyone here was hurting.
Dr. Jindal flashed me a sympathetic smile and continued. “Many of you are here because your relationships with others and with yourself have suffered because of grief. There are many personal characteristics that contribute to us developing healthy relationships. Many of those characteristics are often hindered by our upbringing and by experiencing the loss of someone we love.
“Some of us were encouraged not to cry when we were upset or to keep secrets or lie to the people we love in order not to hurt their feelings. Some of us fell into these behaviors only after you experienced the loss. The only way to reject the personal characteristics that create negative relationship dynamics is to nourish the positive characteristics, such as openness, honesty, vulnerability, and so on. That is what we are here to do.
“We are not here to admonish you for your past mistakes. We are here to support each other and applaud each other’s efforts.” She turned to me and smiled. “How about we start with three-minute introductions. Your name?”
I cleared my throat and sat up a bit straighter. “Laurel.”
“Good evening, Laurel. We’ll start with you tonight. If you feel comfortable, please tell us why you’re here and what you hope to learn in this support group.”
I nodded and glanced around at the attentive faces, then I focused on my hands as I spoke. “I’m Laurel. I… I’m here because my baby boy and my mother were… murdered about two years ago.” A gasp from someone across the room made me pause, but I didn’t look up to see who it was. “I’m here because I want to learn how to stop hurting the people I love… including myself.”
“Very good,” Dr. Jindal encouraged me. “Next.”
The black gentleman next to me in the green University of Oregon sweatshirt also cleared his throat before he spoke. “My name is Kevin. I’m here because my ten-year-old son was killed by a drunk driver six years ago and I just… I can’t stop being angry. My wife left me. My kids hate me. And the bastard only served three months in jail. He’s moved on with his life, but I’m… I’m stuck. I guess I’m here ’cause I’m tired of being so damn angry all the time.”
“Good job, Kevin,” Jindal praised him. “Next.”
As everyone introduced themselves, I began to see how I was not alone. We were all suffering. Many of us suffered in silence, while others admitted to being emotional hurricanes, much like Jack. What we all had in common was the shame. Even if it wasn’t mentioned, you could hear it in our words. We felt ashamed for surviving and for not being strong enough to forge onward as if nothing had happened.
I raised my hand after the last introduction and Jindal nodded at me. “I just want to say that I hear so much shame in all of our words. It breaks my heart for everyone here. I don’t think any of us deserve that.”
Jindal smiled. “Very observant. And you are correct. Survivor’s guilt is not really guilt. It’s a form of shame, and shame is insidious. It’s one of the most useless and destructive emotions. It stunts our emotional intelligence, keeping us from doing and being better. We are going to make sure no one here feels ashamed for moving on and enjoying a healthy, fulfilling existence without their loved one.”
Dr. Jindal continued the session by giving the floor to anyone who wanted to add more detail to their introduction. She closed by thanking us for a great first session and giving us something to “contemplate” before the next session in one week’s time.
“I want you to contemplate your emotional growth. Make a list of five ways you think you can grow emotionally. Can you be more vulnerable? Can you be less secretive? Can you be more generous with your time? Can you take more time for self-care? And so on. I suggest making the list on your phone or appointment book so you have it with you at the next session. I hope to see you all then.”
As I pushed up from the purple yoga mat and walked my hands forward until I was in a downward-facing dog position, I whispered to Drea out of the corner of my mouth. “Did Barry talk to Jack?”
Drea waited a moment before she whispered, “Yes, on Saturday.”
My muscles tensed and instantly began to get a cramp in my neck. “That was five days ago. Did he tell Jack the baby is his?”
“I think so.”
Our yoga instructor, Ginger, issued a calm shush in our direction. “Okay, now I want you to slowly make your way into an Uttanasana pose, or an intense forward-bending pose. Breathe in… and out. Hug the backs of your knees if you can. It’s okay if you can’t. Keep breathing… Now, we will rise slowly into Vrikshasana, or tree pose, rolling your back to release that tension, and slowly, steadily place the bottom of your right foot on the inside of your left calf. Breathe. Feel the stillness.”
“Why hasn’t he called me?” I whispered to Drea, earning me a stern look from Ginger.
I spent the rest of the class repeating the list of five ways I needed to grow emotionally in my head, to keep myself from obsessing over why Jack hadn’t called. But I kept stopping at number four on my list, stopped dead by panicked thoughts of Jack moving on. Jack and I getting divorced. Jack and I using mediators to hash out a custody agreement. Jack meeti
ng someone new and getting remarried. Jack having children with another woman.
By the end of yoga class, my hands were trembling and my stomach burned with acidic dread. As we exited the yoga studio, a blast of chill November air and prickling raindrops smacked me in the face. I pulled on the hood of my jacket and headed straight for Drea’s black SUV, which was parked along the curb on Cascade Avenue. Yanking my seatbelt on, I didn’t attempt to continue the conversation I’d started during class. I was fairly certain that if Jack hadn’t called me by now, I didn’t want to know why.
I cut Drea off as she began to say something. “Can we get some lunch? I’m starving.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened up my Notes app to look at the list I’d made last night after my first group therapy session.
Five Ways I Can Grow Emotionally
1. Stop avoiding confrontation
2. Stop lying and keeping secrets
3. Stop burying negative emotions
4. Stop relying on Jack to give my life purpose
5. Stop blaming myself for things out of my control
I shook my head as it dawned on me that every item on the list was something I had to stop doing. It was just a list of things to avoid, but I’d spent the last two years avoiding everything. I avoided Jack when he was obsessing over the murder case. I avoided reality by never speaking about my dead son. I avoided anything that shined light on the gaping wound in my heart.