Tapping my foot on the floor, I’m fuming now. How dare he make such a rude accusation?
I pick up my plate and walk over to the sink with it, then decide to put his in the fridge for him. Better that than leaving it out for Dexter to try to get. I walk over to the table and catch a whiff of that warm, gooey cheese and buttery bread. Hmm, maybe I will eat it...I am still hungry.
No, do not eat it, Tessa!
Although, if I do, I can always secretly make him another guilt sandwich to stick in the fridge. Sitting down, I scarf down the second sandwich in under a minute, then feel immediately overstuffed and too uncomfortable to want to stand in front of the stove to make another one. Making my way to the couch, I sit down and prop my feet up on the two hundred-year-old coffee table and watch as my belly pops and ripples as the two babies inside me play. Either that or they’re fighting in there...I'm really not sure which. Although I'm obviouslyhopingtheir playing, they could just as easily be kicking each other's faces, developing a lifelong hatred of one another that will require years of intense therapy. Oh God, could they kick each other hard enough to cause a concussion? That would be awful if they were both born with concussion syndrome. I should look that up.
My cell phone rings, and I pick it up to see it’s my mum.
"There you are. What’s going on?”
"I suppose you'll have heard about the throne room by now."
"A very brief overview. Is everything okay?"
"Not really. Your father and I feel just awful. I'm afraid we've pushed your husband to the edge. We wish there was something we could do to fix it." In the background, I hear my father's voice saying, “Speak for yourself, Evi."
Oh, dear. My dad never gets like that.
"Did Arthur say something insulting? He's locked himself in the nursery, and I can't seem to get anything out of him."
"Well, he was certainly forthcoming with us as far as where he stands on how we've behaved since we moved in...and how we've raised you...and also that he's very much against the idea of his father dating Grace next door, so I guess that's out."
"Why don’t you guys come back? I'm sure whatever he said, he didn't mean. He’s just under a tremendous amount of strain at the moment.”
“Which is exactly why we should stay away.”
“Mum, it's ridiculous for you to live with Bram when we've literally got five hundred extra rooms here."
"No, we’d never dream of it. Not after what happened."
Tears fill my eyes for some inexplicable reason, and a wave of hot nausea comes over me as the weight of what's happened starts to settle in. In a matter of days (or hours, if I get on with my visualizing), I’ll be giving birth to two babies and am suddenly embroiled in a huge family conflict I didn't ask for.
"Mum," I say, my voice cracking, “please come back. I need you to be here now."
"I wish we could, Twinkle, but I'm afraid that would create a lot of trouble between you and your husband, and I'm just not willing to do that to you."
I plead with her for another minute or so, then let her off the phone so I can have a mini meltdown alone. I don't know if I can remember a time when I've ever felt so angry with Arthur.
Oh, yes I can—before we were married and Brooke slept over here and he neglected to mention it even though he had several months to do so. I was pretty ticked then. Or when he flushed Chester and replaced him with stupid Walter. Or when—you know what? Don’t go down that road. It won’t help. And the truth is, this situation is somehow so much worse because, well, because it’s happeningnow. I get up to go talk to him, then thinking better of it, I go back to bed and lay down, deciding I need to calm down before I approach this subject. Soon, exhaustion overtakes me, my eyelids grow heavy, and I’m out like a light.
