Chapter 5
Back then, when I heard those words, I blamed myself for not being good enough.
But this time, hearing them again, I couldn't help but laugh.
"Georgia, you're sick. Don't worry about all this," I said.
"Jennifer, you're not blaming me?" she asked.
"Blame you for what?" I replied.
Georgia's lips curled into a faint smile. "For making Oscar unable to move on from me."
She tossed out those words so lightly, like she didn't care.
But when Georgia said it, her gaze wasn't on my face.
Instead, she was staring at my belly.
"Jennifer," she said again. "Once you're out of surgery and back on your feet, I'll treat you to a meal."
"Okay," I replied. "Deal."
"Deal," she said.
Georgia smiled and had the nurse wheel her away.
As the door closed, I caught her saying something to the nurse in the hallway.
Her voice was soft, but I could still make out every word.
"Can you check when Mr. Powell is free? Tell him I want to talk to him in person," she said.
The nurse asked, "When?"
"Tonight," Georgia told the nurse.
I leaned back against the headboard and pulled the blanket up a bit.
Georgia wouldn't get the chance to treat me to that meal.
The surgery was set for ten days later.
In those ten days, Oscar only visited me once.
It wasn't because I asked him to.
It was all thanks to whatever Georgia told him that night. The very next morning, he showed up at my hospital room.
Oscar was dressed in a dark gray suit, his tie pulled tight. He walked in and stopped about six feet away from me, not even bothering to sit down.
"I heard you wanted to see me?" Oscar said.
"Yeah," I replied.
"What is it?" Oscar asked.
"It's not a big deal. I want to ask you something," I said.
Oscar stayed quiet, letting me ask whatever I wanted.
"If I end up dying on the operating table," I said.
His brow twitched.
"Would you be sad?" I asked.
Three seconds of silence hung between us.
"You're not going to die. The best team has been arranged for you," Oscar said.
"That's not what I asked," I said.
"Jennifer," Oscar said, his tone growing impatient. "You signed the papers. Stop being so dramatic now."
In the three years I'd been married to him, he'd called me "dramatic" more than ten times.
Even wanting a birthday cake was being dramatic.
Wanting him to come with me to my prenatal checkups was me being dramatic.
Waking up in the middle of the night and calling him when he wasn't home was me being dramatic, too.
"Fine," I nodded. "I'll stop being so dramatic."
Oscar turned to leave.
"There's one more thing," I said.
He stopped in his tracks.
I said, "You promised me I could go out once before the surgery. I want to book a photo shoot for the baby's first birthday.
"Recovery will take a long time, and I'm afraid I won't be able to do it in time."
He turned and looked at me.
He didn't look concerned.
He watched me closely, not with concern, but with suspicion, like he was checking if I was about to bolt.
"Matthew will go with you," he said.
"Okay," I replied.
He walked out.
The draft from his jacket brushed against my cheek as he left.
He said nothing about the baby.
He never once glanced at my belly, not even for a second.
He never cared about this baby, not from the very beginning, not for a single moment.
Then I saw no point in staying here.
Matthew came with me as I left the hospital.
The photo studio was close by, only a fifteen-minute drive.
Matthew waited at the entrance while I went inside, made a loop around, and slipped out through the back door.
Nora's car was waiting in the alley.
I got in.
"How long do we have?" Nora asked.
"We need to be back in fifteen minutes. Matthew won't wait long before he starts getting suspicious," I said.
Nora drove us three blocks over to a funeral supply shop.
I'd been here before.
Back then, someone else handled it for me.
This time, I was making the choice myself.
I walked into the shop.
The shelves were lined with all kinds of urns, from a few hundred dollars to over ten thousand dollars.
The owner, a woman in her fifties, saw me come in with my pregnant belly, and her smile faltered.
"You... you're buying this?" she stammered.
"Yeah. Do you have anything a bit more elegant?" I asked.
She pointed to a row in the back. I walked over, checked them one by one, and finally chose an ebony urn with lilies delicately carved on it.
"How much is this one?" I asked.
"Three thousand dollars," she replied.
"Wrap it up," I said.
I handed over the money and asked the owner for an extra receipt. Everything, like the item, the date, and my information, was printed on it.
Then I folded the receipt and slipped it into my pocket.
I returned to the photo studio entrance thirteen minutes later.
Matthew was leaning against the car, scrolling through his phone. When he saw me, he looked me over.
"Mrs. Powell, all done?" he asked.