Two Hearts, One Love

“Is he okay?” I asked as Marie came in with dinner for me.

As usual, I just let it sit on the nightstand.

“He’ll be fine,” she said. “I have a friend coming tomorrow.”

“The shrink?”

She pressed her lips together briefly. “She’s known to counsel women through losses like these, yes. I think you’ll feel better once you talk to her.”

I faced the window stubbornly. “I have nothing to say to her.”

“You’re as bad as Ian,” she said. “Well, there’s your dinner.”

She left and I wondered what she had said to her friend. The second this friend finds out they’re holding me hostage, she could take it to the press and ruin their lives. Then I’d be free and do what I want.

The following morning, someone knocked on the door. I didn’t bother with my appearance as Marie and a woman about her age walked in. She wasn’t what I expected. I had expected a dress suit with expensive jewelry and grey hair pulled into a bun. I expected her to be carrying a briefcase and smelling too strongly of perfume.

But the woman in front of me was the exact opposite. She was in a pair of yoga pants decorated with stars and galaxy print. Her tennis shoes were bright red and absolutely clean. She wore a bright red tank top and her hair was dyed, of all colors, orange. When she saw me sitting on the bed, she tilted her head in curiosity. Her blue eyes looked me up and down before she smiled.

“Well, Marie was right,” she said and turned to Ian’s mom. “We’ll be a while. I’ll come get you when we’re done.”

Marie nodded and left. The woman continued to stare at me then got the chair that I had been using as an outlet for my anger. She observed the dings and scratches.

“I’m surprised you haven’t broken it yet,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice.

“It’s sturdy,” I said resentfully.

She chuckled. “Yes, I know. I bought it for them when Marie moved in with Ian. From what they’ve told me, though, you have been putting up quite the fight.”

“They’re keeping me here without my permission,” I said and launched into speech, trying to convince her to call the police.

She sat down and took her hair out of the ponytail. She ran her fingers through it, stopping only when I had finished my plea.

“My name is Kendra Monroe,” she said and I gritted my teeth. “And, no, I won’t be calling the police or going to the press with this.”

“Oh my God!” I screamed and got to my feet, throwing my hands into the air. “This is none of your businesses!”

“How old do you think I am?” she asked and I stared at her, surprised at her question.

“Huh?”

“How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. Fifty?”

She smiled wryly. “I’m 32.”

I stared at her. “What? But you look-.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s amazing what three miscarriages, a bitter divorce, an abusive boyfriend, and betrayal will do to a person.”

I didn’t know what to say. She was still smiling and she didn’t look sad. Was all of that really true? Or was she just saying that to make me feel pity for her? If she was, it was working. I understood all of those things and gulped.

“You’re lying,” I said finally.

She stood up and lifted her tank top. There they were: the same marks that were on me from the miscarriage only she had more.

“They were redder when each miscarriage happened,” she said. “It goes away, of course, and they soon look like normal stretch marks. Not a big deal, right?”

“Wrong,” I snapped. “You’ll have those forever! Anyone who sees them will judge you!”

“Why? For all they know I just lost a lot of weight.”

“But you know the truth! How do you explain those to people!? You can’t! They’ll never get it!”

“Not everyone will, that’s true,” she said. “But a lot of people don’t ask. They just see the marks and move on. Marie will show you the same thing. She has the marks from when she gave birth to Ian.”

I blinked. “You mean… they’re not like a reaction or something?”

“Nope,” she said and sat back down in the chair. “Every woman gets them when they get pregnant. Hell, everyone gets them when they gain and lose weight. It’s normal.” I put my hands on my stomach. “Marie said your mom won’t come see you.” I stared at my lap. “My mom did the same thing when I told her my boyfriend was abusing me. You see, after my last miscarriage, the strain was too much for me and my ex-husband. We couldn’t stand to be in the same room as each other. We both felt responsible for the deaths so we just… fell apart. I met my ex when I was in a bar, drinking away my guilt. I thought he was my knight in shining armor.” She shook her head. “He was the exact opposite.”

“What’d you do?” I whispered.

“Fought,” she said. “Hard. It took a lot of strength to get out of the relationship and make a new life for myself.”

I shut my eyes. “I don’t have anything left,” I said, my voice shaking. “My fiancé broke up with me, called me a murderer. My mom won’t even come see me. I have no strength. I can’t even succeed in killing myself.”

“Why do you want to kill yourself?” she asked.

I looked at her. “Didn’t you want to?”

“No,” she said. “I’m being honest,” she added when I scoffed. “I felt like my baby would be ashamed of me, Celeste. It didn’t have the strength to make it but I did. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t live for it?”

“It’s not that easy,” I began.

“I’m not saying it is,” she said. “Especially when you’re all alone. But you’re not alone anymore.”

“This doesn’t count,” I said, glaring at the bedroom door. “They don’t let me do anything on my own.”

“Because they know you’ll try and kill yourself the first chance you get,” she said.

I shook my head and glared at her.

“Don’t you dare start judging me,” I spat.

“I’m not,” she said. “I swear I’m not.” She sat beside me and I tried to move away. She put a hand on my arm. “Tell me about when you found out you miscarried.”