As she worked, she thought back to her first years of painting in Colorado, back when she’d had a very different name and a very different life. What she’d seen out the window of her cabin had felt so spectacular, so grand. She’d never thought anyone would ever see her paintings. She’d never thought that anyone would ever care to see them.
Since discovering Larry’s rise to fame, Jasmine had avoided every headline and search bar. She didn’t want to know what his paintings sold for, how wealthy he’d become, or how perfect his life appeared now, years after she’d been forced to run from him just to survive.
Some stories were safer left unopened.
It was Larry who called the doctor in Boulder to inquire about his fertility services. Jasmine—who went by Henrietta at the time—listened from the living room, her head pounding, as her husband stood at the kitchen phone and secured an appointment for the following week. “We look forward to it, Doctor,” Larry said. “My wife and I want a family terribly. We’ve been trying and trying. It feels like you’re our only hope.”
It was true that they’d been trying to get pregnant for years and years. Henrietta was now twenty-eight years old and far older than most women when they had their first. But at this stage of her life, she’d begun to daydream about another reality, one in which she didn’t have Larry as a husband, wasn’t his prisoner, who was made to cook and clean for him.
They left for the doctor at nine thirty in the morning on a blustery Tuesday in February. Henrietta was quiet throughout the drive, willing her body to fight whatever “science” or “magic” the doctor performed on them. She didn’t know a thing about fertility. Maybe something within her body was protecting a potential child from having a father like Larry. Maybe this was nature’s way.
When they arrived, things only seemed to get worse.
The doctor was a terrible man of fifty who made jokes about Henrietta’s body and mind in a way that made Henrietta feel she wasn’t in the room with him and her husband. Henrietta sat with her arms crossed over her stomach, listening as men made up their minds about her future. It was soon decided that they would perform a brand-new surgery on Henrietta, one that she couldn’t refuse, as refusing was the same as saying she didn’twant what her husband wanted. She felt her heart break with fear. She’d never been cut open before.
The surgery was scheduled for the following week. During the days leading up to it, Henrietta couldn’t sleep and daydreamed about escaping her life in Colorado. She imagined walking to the side of the road and sticking up her thumb. She imagined somehow getting to Denver, where she’d board a bus and take it anywhere it was headed.
She didn’t dare name a place she’d rather be. She’d never been anywhere but Colorado before. She’d heard about New York City and Maine and Washington, DC, and New Mexico. She’d heard about other countries, other continents. But imagining herself as far away as one state to the east or west terrified her.
I can’t stay. I can’t go.Her thoughts were twisted up. Time passed regardless. She felt as though her life would carry her forward, like a river.
On the day of her surgery, Henrietta lay in a hospital bed and watched her husband and the surgeon discuss what was going to happen to her insides. She’d never felt more disconnected from herself. She realized, at that moment, that she hadn’t painted in months, not since Larry had discovered her paintings and called them his own. Even now, as the surgeon prepared to leave, Larry mentioned that he was a painter and that he had numerous paintings for sale if the surgeon was a collector. The surgeon seemed intrigued and said that they should talk about it later.
Under her breath, Henrietta said, “You’re shameless, Larry Johannes.”
“What was that, sweetheart?” Larry asked, leaning forward to kiss her on the brow.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise that the surgery was a grand success. Against all her previous prayers, her damaged fallopian tubes were now primed and ready for fertilization. Andfertilization was what happened to Henrietta just a couple of months later. Against all odds, she was pregnant. She panged with mixed feelings of loss of joy. She hadn’t realized how much she’d always wanted a baby, how often she’d kept those dreams at bay because she’d assumed it couldn’t happen. Now, she had to do something about Larry, about her circumstances. She had to do it for her baby's safety and happiness. Lucky for Henrietta, Larry wasn’t yet aware of the pregnancy, which gave her a little time to think.
By then, Larry was fully immersed in the opening of his very first art exhibition—an exhibition that he saw as his first step into the grand world of art. He was often in Boulder, overseeing the hanging of her paintings and chatting with other local artists, all of whom saw him as an exciting new talent to watch. Henrietta marveled that she wasn’t overwhelmed with jealousy. The truth was, she was grateful that Larry was out of the house so much.
Maybe she’d painted those works to push Larry away from her. She just hadn’t known it at the time.
Henrietta sat on the cabin's front porch, her hands resting on her pregnant stomach, her eyes closed as a soft breeze crept through the trees and swept across her face. As strange as it was, she tried to communicate with the tiny baby inside her; she tried to askWhere should we go? What should we do?But of course, the only answer came from within her own mind. She had to run.
She decided to plan her escape for the opening night of Larry’s exhibition. It was perfect, as it would put her and Larry in Boulder, and it would distract Larry for long enough so she could slip away to the bus station and get out. Throughout the winter and spring and early summer, she’d siphoned dollars here and there from Larry’s wallet, conscious that this day would come. Now, she had one hundred and fifty dollars hidden in alittle purse she kept strapped to her body at all times. It wasn’t enough to start a life with—but it was enough to get away.
Henrietta was two months pregnant on the night of Larry’s opening exhibition. She was so nervous and ill from the pregnancy that she spent all morning before they left throwing up in the bathroom. When Larry demanded why she looked so pale, so sick, she told him simply that she’d eaten something strange. “But I’m almost ready to go,” she said.
“You better not ruin tonight,” Larry said, clenching his teeth. He muttered vaguely about her “still not giving me a baby,” and other ways she’d failed him as a wife. Henrietta kept her lips tightly shut. She had less than twenty-four hours left as his wife.
At two thirty that afternoon, Larry and Henrietta set off in Larry’s truck. Because they planned to spend the night in Boulder after the opening party, Henrietta had packed a few changes of clothes, all her identification documents, and a few keepsakes from a childhood that now felt ancient. Her parents were both gone, but they’d left her an ivory comb, a brooch, an old cigar case, and a few journals. She clung to them like her life depended on it.
On the drive to Boulder, Larry spoke exclusively about the promise of his new life. He spoke about how important the paintings were and how much money he’d bring in for them. “And when you finally get pregnant,” he said, “we can get a different house, a bigger one, maybe in Boulder itself, or Denver, if I make enough.”
Henrietta felt her eyes flicker over to him. Curiosity filled her chest. It genuinely mystified her that he’d begun to think the paintings were really his. Had he forgotten that he’d never put his paintbrush to the canvas? Had he forgotten that he didn’t have a creative bone in his body?
And then, he offered her a surprise moment of tenderness. “I know it hasn’t been easy, what with the surgery and still havingno baby and all,” he said. “But when this kicks off for us, I’d be happy to have you decorate the new house for us. I’m especially looking forward to how you decorate the nursery. I know it’ll be something special.”
Henrietta didn’t know what to say. She clapped her hands over her mouth and told herself not to cry. Thinking she was overcome with love for him, Larry smiled and gestured out the window at what had to be the most gorgeous view of the Rocky Mountains, which they were lucky to see nearly every day of their lives.
“This is our wonderful life together, Henrietta,” he said. “I thank my lucky stars every single day.”
When they reached Boulder, Larry parked the truck in the lot behind the exhibition space. Henrietta slid from out of the truck, flinching to grab her bag but knowing it would look strange if she carried it with her now. “Larry,” she asked, trying to sound meek and stupid, “what time were you thinking we’d check into the hotel?”
Larry was already halfway between the truck and the exhibition space. He gave her a bug-eyed look. “I have things to do,” he said pointedly, as though he couldn’t busy himself with her.
But Henrietta had to figure out how to access her bag during the opening party without alerting Larry that she was headed on her way out of his life.
