Page 28 of It's One of Us
He assumed they’d never know the truth about what happened the night Melanie Rich died.
He was wrong.
Peter Johnson was arrested a year after Olivia and Park married.
Park couldn’t believe it.
The roommate.
Peter couldn’t either. He claimed innocence. The police claimed they had a DNA match. The police won.
Peter went to prison, his lawyers promising him he’d be released on appeal because the case was so thin. But six months later, he got shanked in a dispute over three cigarettes, died of sepsis in the prison’s grungy hospital wing, and the case was closed forever.
Melanie, dead. Peter, dead. Park, out in the world with his lovely young wife, trying for a baby.
Life is strange sometimes.
13
THE WIFE
Morning sun stretches across Olivia’s comforter. Normally a happy lark in the early hours, now she feels gritty and exhausted. She’s been sleeping poorly, tossing and turning after going to bed alone, wondering if Park is going to join her or if he is going to sit in his shed all night, avoiding her, avoiding them, hoping for the latter but strangely needing the former. Each night, she’s given up waiting and shut off the light, sinking alone into the darkness before the dawn. Her dreams are full of amorphous beasts and heartbreaking visions, and she wakes feeling utterly unrested.
It is chilly this morning, despite the sun. Park isn’t beside her, but she smells coffee; he must be in the kitchen. She snuggles on the bed with a cozy blanket and her phone, idly scrolling through Instagram, looking at her favorite accounts. Her feed is full of architecture and design. Vision boards and paint schedules and herringbone marble patterns. French country home tours and farmhouse chic renovations. All relevant to her business, and to her life.
And a few others. The hashtags are preprogrammed; she’s looked at them so often all she needs to do is press the little magnifying glass that indicates Search and up they come, a parade of want and need. Happy tags: #motherhood #momsofinstagram #momslife #pregnantbelly #pregnantlife #maternityshoot #pregnantstyle #IVFlife #babygirl. (She does want a girl, no matter what she tells Park—and herself—about not caring what gender their little darling is. A boy would be lovely, of course. But a mini-me would be precious.)
She loses herself in this rabbit hole of glorious, distended bellies and cradled hands and fingers in the shape of hearts and radiant joy and sometimes even feels happy for the mothers-to-be in the photos. It certainly isn’t an issue for her. She isn’t addicted. There are just moments when she finds comfort in the idea of what might be.
Today, though, it is punishment, and she won’t pretend otherwise. Seeing the joy and happiness on these strangers’ faces makes her ache inside. For the past few months, she’s scrolled these hashtags full of excitement and wonder, cataloging the changes in her own body with comparisons to #12weekspregnant and #excitingnews. Now she wonders why there aren’t more hashtags that deal with the trauma of losing a child. The horrors of miscarriage. The injustice of a body’s biological betrayal. Something more visceral than #rainbowbaby.
#bleedingagain #lostit #loser #wonteverbeamother.
She’s handled this one well, she thinks. She’s been strong. She hasn’t whined. She hasn’t obsessed. She hasn’t gotten obliterated on white wine and screamed at Park. The Ativan is helping, for sure. Every evening, half of a small round tab lingers on her tongue, sweetening her own bitter recriminations.
Park comes into the bedroom carrying a cup of coffee for her as if this is just any other day. He hurries to her side, placing the coffee on a coaster by her phone. “Honey? Are you okay? Tell me why you’re crying.”
Park is so good at asking the hard questions. He’s never shied away from her sadness, probably because he doesn’t know it’s driven by her own guilt. She did this to them. She is responsible.
She wipes her face, surprised to feel the wetness. “I hadn’t realized I was.”
He joins her on the bed, pulls her to his chest. He is strong, and warm, and despite herself, she snuggles in, letting the tension release from her body. She is still mad at him—furious, in fact—but she wants comfort more than rage right now.
She feels him relax as well. They need this. The touching. It’s so easy to forget the importance of a simple hug. The chemicals that release when they love each other, making them both feel better. They haven’t spoken more than the necessities in days. They certainly haven’t touched.
Park takes a deep breath. Despite herself, she tenses.Here we go, she thinks, and mentally slaps herself. He’s lost something here, too.
“Olivia, I’m so sorry. I’ve made a mess of things. I didn’t tell you about donating before because I was a coward. I should have said something the moment you offered to let me donate. That was so magnanimous of you, and you were hurting, and... I just couldn’t admit what I’d done. Not right then. I felt like I’d be hurting you even more, kicking you when you were down. Please, honey. Please forgive me.”
She sighs. Her brows are drawn together so tightly she can sense the divot in the tender flesh above her eyes. She idiotically waits for the morning sickness to come so she can surge out of the bed, away from his strong arms, but it’s absent. She is empty. It’s the weirdest feeling. Breasts no longer sore. Womb no longer swelling. Stomach solid as a rock. Hungry. She’s actually hungry.
Life goes on, damn her.
Park is still talking. “We’re going to get through this. I know it’s going to be rough, but I swear, Liv, we’re going to get through this.”
Focus on your husband.
“I’m not sure what there is to get through, Park. This situation is terrible, but we’ve done nothing wrong.”
