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He nods, but his mind seems elsewhere. Silently, he strips off his soaked clothes, tosses them on the floor, and heads to the ensuite bathroom to take a shower. Half an hour later he reappears, his dark, wavy hair blown dry, and clad in his calf-length terry cloth robe.
“I hired a night nanny,” I tell him as I watch him get dressed for work, in his exquisite custom-made suit and shirt.
He raises a thick eyebrow as he adjusts his silk tie in the mirror above his dresser. “Already?”
I flash a proud smile. “Yes.”
“And she can start tonight?”
“Yes. She’ll be here this evening.”
“Excellent. The sooner the better.”
I’m happy he’s happy. A happy husband makes a happy life, preached my mother.
After checking his appearance one more time in the mirror, making sure every hair on his head is in place, and there’s no lint on his suit, he takes long, confident strides to the armchair where his Italian leather briefcase is parked.
“Well, I’m going to head out. Having been away from the office for over a week, I’ve got a ton of stuff to catch up on. I may be home late.”
Clutching his briefcase, he ambles my way. “Are you and Isa going to be okay?”
I give a weak nod. “We’ll survive.”
Will we?
Bending, he pokes a kiss on the top of my head, not quite knowing what to do with Isa, who’s still sound asleep on my chest.
I gaze up at him. “Honey, before you leave, would you do me a favor and put Isa back into her bassinet?”
“Won’t she wake up?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be able to handle her.” I say it as bravely as I can, but we both know that is far from the truth.
Taking a deep breath, he drops his briefcase on the bed and does what I’ve asked.
Isa safe and sound and still asleep, I thank him.
He squeezes in a “love you” as he dashes out the room with his briefcase, giving me no chance to say the words back.
I instantly feel alone and overwhelmed. Why couldn’t he have taken a short paternity leave and worked from home—especially with me in my debilitated state? In addition to my bone-deep fatigue, I’m sore all over from my C-section. Requiring two incisions, one in my abdomen, the other internal, I feel like I’ve been hit by a freight train. Fortunately, today the pelvic pain is not too bad. I’m able to roll out of bed and do my morning business.
As I slip on my fuzzy slippers and chenille robe, Isa’s wailing starts again. The poor little thing! Maybe, like me, she needs a change of scenery. Keeping her in her bassinet, I manage to wheel her into the living room. No longer on crutches, this is the most I’ve been on my feet since giving birth.
Out of breath from the effort, I lumber to the black leather recliner I bought when the pain first set in. I have to admit, it’s pretty hideous. Ned hates it with a passion and has threatened to put it on the street or have those Got Junk people haul it away. But I’ve told him it’s a necessity until I completely heal. Standing up from his sectional leather couch is impossible and it kills my back. The deluxe recliner has a power lift feature that pushes it up and allows me to stand without straining myself. For someone in my condition, this chair is a lifesaver.
Facing the big-screen TV, it also makes for an excellent nursing station. Placing the bassinet next to it, I gingerly bend over and lift screaming Isa into my arms. Carefully, I settle into the upright recliner, and after adjusting the chair, put my baby to my breast. My frustration mounts as she tries to suckle and soon morphs into utter despondency when she falls asleep against me from all the effort. She’s hardly gotten any milk. My poor little baby. Tears pricking the back of my eyes, I call her pediatrician’s office, but get a recording to leave a message. Then I try my obstetrician, who’s not available because he’s doing a surgical procedure.
My heart heavy, I push a button on the remote control. The chair tilts me forward and I rise to my feet to return my swaddled infant to her bassinet. Fingers crossed she’ll sleep for a while. While I’m up and about, I toddle to the kitchen. I prepare a pot of decaf coffee and eye a few dishes in the sink. How hard is it for Ned to load them into the dishwasher? Or to take out the trash?
Glumly, I make my way to the pantry. A few granola bars, open boxes of cereal, and canned items line the once-stocked shelves. And an army of ants. Feeling like Old Mother Hubbard, I open the fridge. There’s hardly a thing to eat inside it. Just some moldy cheese, shriveled tangerines, a carton of eggs, and a half-drunk bottle of Chardonnay. Thankfully, there’s also some butter, just enough to make some scrambled eggs. I so wish our housekeeper, Rosita, was back.
I spend a good part of the afternoon online, researching lactation issues when I’m not attending to Isa, who cries more than she sleeps. As I change my baby’s wet diaper for the umpteenth time, I try to fight the resentment bubbling inside me. My husband gets to live his life, travel, go to work, while I’m stuck at home—trapped in a house I hate—with a wailing baby—and have to put my interior design career on hold. I haven’t worked for months. I try to rationalize the inequity of it all. At least Ned’s called me twice from his office to check on me. A small consolation.
The day goes on and to pass the time away, anxiously awaiting Nurse Manners, I turn the TV on to watch the local evening news. I recognize the anchor. A fifty-year-old Ken doll lookalike. He looks directly into the camera. His expression is intense, his lips pressed thin.
“Tonight on KCAL 5…Breaking news. The police are looking for a man who, late this afternoon, invaded the home of a wealthy industrialist in an exclusive area of the Hollywood Hills, west of Laurel Canyon. After shooting the owner and tying up his wife, he managed to escape with over fifty thousand dollars in cash, two million dollars in jewels, and several small priceless artifacts. Critically injured, the husband was rushed to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center and is expected to live. Meanwhile, a desperate search for the gunman is underway. Nearby residents are urged to stay indoors and report any suspicious activity to the police. Police warn the man, who escaped in a green Jeep Wrangler, is armed and dangerous.”
I zap the TV off. Fear fills every cell of my body as a helicopter whirs overhead. That man could be nearby! My heart racing, I sit frozen in the leather recliner. Then the doorbell rings. No one gets onto our property without buzzing the intercom by the gate. And I didn’t hear a car pull into the driveway.
