Chapter 2 - the date on the ultrasound
No one moved for a full three seconds.
Then Beatatrice found her voice.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she snapped, and just like that the trembling, wounded act disappeared. “Are you insane?”
Damon turned slowly toward her. “What is she talking about?”
“Nothing,” Beatatrice said too quickly. “She’s upset because of the shower and she wants to embarrass me.”
I looked at him, not her. “Ask her where she was the week you were in Scottsdale in March.”
Beatatrice’s head whipped toward me. “Shut up.”
There it was. Not denial. Not confusion. Fear.
Damon frowned. “What does Scottsdale have to do with anything?”
“Everything,” I said.
My mother hurried down the porch steps. “Jodie, enough. You’ve already ruined the party.”
I laughed coldly. “Interesting choice of words.”
Andre was beside me now, one hand at the small of my back. Cory came up on my other side, arms crossed. The backyard guests hadn’t fully left, so now half of them had frozen at the gate or near their cars, pretending not to stare while staring very hard.
Beatatrice squared her shoulders. “You’re jealous. That’s what this is. You’re jealous because people were happy for me.”
“No,” I said. “I’m angry because you stole my baby shower, my baby name, and then expected me to keep carrying your lie.”
Damon looked between us. “What lie?”
Beatatrice stepped toward him and caught his arm. “Baby, don’t listen to her. She’s hormonal and acting crazy.”
The second she said crazy, my mother nodded.
That almost broke something in me all over again.
Because this was the family script. If Beatatrice cried, she was delicate. If I got angry, I was unstable.
I reached into the tote bag Cory had packed for me and pulled out a white envelope.
Beatatrice lunged before I could say a word.
Andre caught her wrist midair.
The whole yard gasped.
“Don’t,” he said quietly.
I held up the envelope. “You left this in my guest bathroom trash can two months ago after you spent the night at our place.”
Damon stared at the logo printed across the top. Women’s Diagnostic Center.
Beatatrice’s face lost the last bit of color it had left.
“You told Damon your first prenatal appointment was in April,” I said. “This receipt is dated March sixteenth. And according to the gestational estimate on the paperwork inside, you were already eight weeks pregnant.”
Damon looked at me like he was trying to force the math into submission. “That’s impossible.”
“It isn’t,” I said gently. “Not if she conceived while you were gone.”
“No,” Beatatrice said sharply. “No, that’s not how they count. That’s not—”
“From the first day of the last cycle?” Cory cut in. “Sure. Except there’s also an estimated conception window on the next page.”
Beatatrice swung toward her. “Why are you even talking?”
“Because I can count,” Cory said.
My mother reached for the envelope. “This is private medical information.”
“It became my business when she turned my shower into a stage,” I said, stepping back.
Damon held out his hand. “Let me see it.”
Beatatrice shook her head immediately. “No.”
The word landed wrong. Too hard. Too desperate.
Damon lowered his hand slowly. “Why not?”
“Because she stole it,” Beatatrice said. “Because she’s been obsessed with me for months.”
“Obsessed?” Andre echoed. “Jodie has spent months covering for you.”
That got everyone’s attention.
Beatatrice jerked toward him. “What did you say?”
Andre looked at Damon. “She came to our house in March crying because she’d made a ‘mistake.’ Jodie begged her to tell you herself. She never did.”
Damon’s face changed.
He took one step away from Beatatrice.
“Is that true?”
She looked around the yard, realizing the performance was slipping. “It wasn’t like that.”
Not no.
Never no.
My mother moved quickly. “This has gone far enough. Damon, take your wife home.”
I turned to my mother. “You knew.”
Her mouth closed.
That was answer enough.
Damon saw it too.
His head snapped toward her. “You knew?”
Before she could speak, the envelope slipped from my hand in the wind. Papers scattered across the patio stones.
Andre bent to grab them.
One sheet wasn’t a medical receipt.
It was a hotel invoice.
May you like
And clipped to it was a valet ticket signed with one handwritten initial:
R.
