Page 71 of The Last Mrs. Parrish

“It’s not the same thing at all, Jackson. I can’t explain why bad things happen. I’m just saying that I’m carrying a life inside me, and I don’t know if I could terminate, no matter what. I don’t think I’m capable of that.”

He got very quiet, pursed his lips, then spoke deliberately. “Let me help you out then. I cannot raise a disabled child. I know that that is something that I am not capable of.”

“The baby is probably fine, but how can you say you can’t raise a child with a disability or an illness? It’s your child. You don’t throw a life away because it’s not what you consider perfect. How can you not see that?”

He looked at me a long time before answering. “What I see is that you have no idea what it’s like to grow up normally. We shouldn’t even be having this conversation yet. If—and that’s a big if—it turns out we have something to worry about, we’ll discuss it then.”

“But—”

He put a hand up to stop me. “The baby will be perfect. You need help, Daphne. It’s obvious that you’re incapable of letting go of the past. I want you to see a therapist.”

“What? You’re not serious?”

“I’ve never been more serious. I won’t have you raising our son with all your phobias and paranoia.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Everything is colored by your sister’s illness. You can’t separate that and what it did to you from your present life. You’ve got to move past it. Put it to bed, for God’s sake. Therapy will close the issue once and for all.”

I didn’t want to dredge up my childhood and live through it again. “Jackson, please, Ihavelet go of the past. Haven’t we been happy? I’ll be fine, I promise you. I was just thrown a little. That’s all. I’ll be fine. Really.”

He arched a perfect brow. “I want to believe you, but I have to be sure.”

I gave him a wooden smile. “We’re going to have a perfect baby and all live happily ever after.”

His lips curled upward. “That’s my girl.”

Then something he’d said a moment ago registered. “How do you know it’s going to be a boy?”

“I don’t. But I’m hoping it will. I’ve always wanted a son—someone I could do all the things with that my father never had time to do with me.”

I felt a nervous stirring in my gut. “What if it’s a girl?”

He shrugged. “Then we’ll try again.”

Forty-Three

Of course, we had a girl—Tallulah, and she was perfect. She was an easy baby, and I reveled in being a mother. I loved nursing her at night when the house was quiet, staring into her eyes and feeling a connection that I’d never felt before. I followed my mother’s advice and slept when she slept, but I was still more exhausted than I’d anticipated. At four months, she still wasn’t sleeping through the night, and because I was nursing, I’d refused Jackson’s offer of a night nurse. I didn’t want to pump and have her fed from a bottle. I wanted to do it all. But that meant I had less time for Jackson.

That’s when things began to unravel. By the time he fully revealed himself to me, it was too late. He had used my vulnerability to his advantage, like a general armed for battle. His weapons were kindness, attention, and compassion—and when victory was assured, he discarded them like spent casings, and his true nature emerged.

Jackson faded to the background, and all my time and energy was focused on Tallulah. That morning, I’d pulled the scale out from under the vanity, thrown my robe off, and stepped on—139. I stared at the number in shock. I heard the door open, and he was standing there, looking at me with a strange expression on his face. I went to step off, but he put a hand up, walked toward me, and peered over my shoulder. A look of disgust crossed his face so quickly that I almost missed it. He reached out and patted my stomach, raising his eyebrows.

“Shouldn’t this be flat by now?”

I felt the color rush to my face as shame filled me. Stepping off the scale, I grabbed my robe from the floor and threw it on. “Why don’t you try having a baby and see how your stomach looks?”

He shook his head. “It’s been four months, Daph. Can’t use that excuse anymore. I see lots of your friends at the club in their tight jeans. They’ve all had kids too.”

“They probably all had tummy tucks after their C-sections too,” I shot back.

He took my face in his hands. “Don’t get defensive. You don’t need a tummy tuck. You just need some discipline. I married a size four, and I expect you to get back into all those expensive clothes I’ve bought you. Come on.” He took my hand and led me to the love seat in the corner of our bedroom suite. “Sit down and listen.”

He put an arm around my shoulder and took a place next to me on the love seat.

“I’m going to help you. You need accountability.” Then he pulled out a journal.

“What’s that?” I asked.

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