“I accused her of not loving me, of marrying me for my money. I was sure that once the baby was born, she'd be out the door and never see me again, beyond divorce proceedings.”
He leaned forward to straighten the newspapers and tablet on the coffee table, then he abruptly swept everything to the floor with a clatter and smash.
I startled, but didn't move from my spot on the sofa.
He continued, “She was nearly six months pregnant when I gave her an ultimatum. She was over the morning sickness by then, but there was always an excuse why she wouldn't touch me. She could barely be in the same room as me by then. I told her that either she submitted to me, as my wife, or she was out the door.”
I hugged the pillow tightly to my chest, feeling sick myself at the idea of this ugliness. As Smith told me about the fighting that ensued, I could picture everything vividly, especially the anger on his face, because I'd seen it myself.
Finally, I interrupted him, saying, “Stop. I get it. You guys fought. That's normal. You don't have to tell me about this.”
He turned to me, his eyes dark like a stormy sky. “She was sobbing as she unbuttoned her blouse.”
I squirmed in my seat. “Stop, don't tell me this.”
He didn't stop, though. He continued, “She cried the whole time. And you know what? I didn't feel bad. I didn't feel bad at all.”
I inched away from him on the sofa, my throat constricted with pain and rage on behalf of this woman I didn't know.
He kept staring at me, but I wouldn't meet his eyes, though I felt them piercing me. “People don't change their nature,” he said. “That's who I am.”
“That's who you were. That's not who you have to be.”
He stood up, grabbed a lamp from the side table, and threw it against the wall, where it smashed.
With his back to me, he said, “The baby was stillborn. Dead on delivery. And she looked up at me with contempt in her eyes, and she said, 'I hope you're happy. This is what you deserve.'”
I scrambled to my feet and ran to the master bedroom.
“This is what you deserve,” he repeated, his voice booming.
I locked the door behind me.
I opened my suitcase, and started throwing in everything that would fit.
He tapped on the door. “Tori, I'm sorry about the lamp.”
“It's fine,” I called out. “I'm sure the hotel will put it on your bill and not even care.” I grabbed my purse and made sure I had my wallet and passport. “You can tell them I broke it. Blame it on me.”
“I might go out for a walk,” he said.
Fighting to keep my voice calm, I said, “That sounds like a good idea.”
“What are you doing?” His voice sounded funny, like he could see me and knew I was packing, knew I was leaving.
Calmly, I called out, “Can you just give me some personal space for a bit? Like an hour?”
“Of course,” he said, sounding like Mr. Reasonable. “I'll go for my walk, and then we can figure out where we want to go for dinner. It's our last night in the city, and I want it to be memorable.”
I sat on the bed, staring at the locked door, which blurred as I fought back tears.
“Tori?”
Cheerily, I said, “Sounds good. Dinner later. Let's do that.”
I heard him sigh, and then walk away. A few minutes later I heard him leave.
I waited as long as I could before I bolted.
The taxi took me to the airport, and the driver tried to lighten the mood, but I didn't stop crying the whole way.
Somehow, I managed to negotiate the confusing airport packed with people, and buy a plane ticket that would get me home.
Home.
To my empty apartment, down the street from my mother.
I thought of using a pay phone to call her, but I'd checked in the previous day and said everything was fine. There was no need to worry her. I'd be home soon enough, away from… I couldn't even think his name. Away from him.
To pass the time until my plane departed, I tried to buy a book to read, but I saw his novels in the shop, and had to leave empty-handed.
I couldn't read, so I drank.
In the dimly-lit lounge, day was night and night was day, and the sign said it was happy hour somewhere.
I was teetering as I went through security, and the security staff looked at me warily.
“High heels,” I said. “I usually wear flats.”
I tossed my purse into the plastic bin and walked through the metal detector without a peep. I glanced up at the screen as my purse went through the machine.
“What the hell is that?” I said.
The round-cheeked woman in the security vest glanced up at the screen.
“Necklace,” she said.
“But I… right, necklace.”
I took my purse back and continued on my way, to the next holding area, and then on to my plane.
Once seated, I finally got the courage to open my purse.
There it was—a turquoise blue box, tied with a chocolate-brown ribbon bearing the word Birks. This was the Montreal equivalent of Tiffanys, and I knew this because we'd walked past the store on our walking tour of Phillips Square. I'd actually gone to get ice cream while he said he was running in to use the washroom.
I opened the box.
The woman seated next to me on the plane gasped. “Mon dieu!” she exclaimed, then started peppering me with what sounded like questions.
“I'll have to return it,” I said, as much to her as to myself. “It's from a man who I can't have in my life.”
I turned to look out the airplane's window.
The plane began to taxi down the runway, and it couldn't go fast enough to make me happy.
In my mind, I saw Smith, and all his moods. The most powerful image was the one from the photo on the website, with his face red and contorted with rage. Next to him, I'd looked weak and pathetic.
The woman asked why I couldn't have such a “generous man” in my life.
I said, “I'm done playing Cinderella, and I'm going home.”