The Drazen World: Irrelevant (Kindle Worlds Novella) (5 page)

Nine

I have no business being here.

“Please,” I beg the maid who’s soft on me. I know to come when no one’s around so she doesn’t get in trouble. “I’ll be quick. I promise.” The cool November weather rushes over me, making me yearn to be indoors where it’s warmer. “I only need thirty minutes.”

She looks over her shoulder. “Fine. Mrs. Drazen is out shopping and should be gone for most of the day. Just be quick, Katie.” She pushes me out of the large kitchen and toward the winding stairs.

With Jonathan away on an extended business trip that’s taken him from one country to the next, boredom has set in. I’ve done all the gardening my mind can take. I’m not allowed to roam the grounds or leave them, so my options are few. My footsteps quicken up the stairs, and I hurry toward the dark brown door where a variety of books are waiting for someone like me to read them. I’m giddy thinking of the haul I’ll take away in my bag. There’s something about becoming lost in a world created by simple words and characters to fall in love with. I go to my favorite area, the classics, and begin to peruse. I’m low to the floor, trying to decide between re-reading about the irrelevant heroine in
Jane Eyre
or the complicated love triangle in
Wuthering Heights
—both of which I know all too well—and
I hear the sounds of heels and heavy boots trodding on the hardwood floor outside the library.

“This way.”

Monica?
I haven’t been inside the library more than ten minutes, and she’s back already?
What am I going to do?
I doubt she’ll want to see my face in her personal domain even though the maid has shared that the library is hardly used by anyone. I drop to my knees on the cranberry-colored carpet between the wooden rows stacked with books. I look behind me at the windows and rule them out. Too high. I’ll break my neck. And the door is too far away now.

“You want him dead?” an unrecognizable male asks.

“Will you lower your voice!” I hear fast walking away from me though still inside the library. “Yes. This has to go exactly as I’ve planned.”

Dead?
What are they talking about? Just then, dust particles float up from underneath my knees. I do my best to muffle the sneeze, but it’s so eerily quiet, you can hear a pin drop. I stay still, frozen by fear.

“Did you hear that?”

I tuck my head down even more.

“I didn’t hear anything. I know what to do,” the male says.

“Then stop asking stupid questions.”

“I’ll show you stupid.” I hear a rip, then a thud as though she’s been pushed against something solid.

I peek around the standing bookcase and see that the door isn’t closed. The two are nowhere near, and I take the only way of escape by crawling on my knees and leave behind the bag.

“This is what you give him? No wonder he fucks someone else,” the voice says.

On my way out, my nose tickles.
Not again.
I sneeze. I couldn’t muffle this one in time, so I rush the rest of the way through the door.

As soon as I’m over the threshold, I’m on my feet. No way that one wasn’t heard.

I hear soft footfalls behind me, but I don’t look back. I pick up my pace down the long hallway. Rays of sunlight from the windows beam down on the stairs’ bannister. I grab hold of the baluster, afraid if I rush too quickly I’ll lose my balance.

Three steps down and I’m still being followed. I know it. I feel the person’s breath on my back. Hands are on my back, and for a moment, I think they’re trying to stop me, but they shove me forward. I tumble down the marble stairs, landing in an awkward position on the carpet runner in the center of the stairs. My legs under me, I’m bruised and unable to move or scream.

***

There’s a sensation of being ripped from the inside out, intense contracting, then the feeling that
everything
inside me needs to come out. Now!

“How far along are you, Miss?” someone near me asks, but all I can do is scream out Jonathan’s name as pain and fear collide inside my stomach.

“How far, Miss?” the voice prompts again.

Through the pain, I shout my name, not even sure that was the question I was asked. Then I remember another name. I don’t know if he’ll come or even care what’s happened. “Call Jonathan Drazen,” I say as another cramp buzzes through me that would’ve brought me to my knees had I not been lying on my back.

Everything after that occurs at lightning speed. I’m poked and prodded, tubes run out of me, and my knees are bent.

“Ms. Smith, you must push.”

Push?
It’s not time. The secret I’ve held to myself, waiting for the right time to tell Jonathan, isn’t ready. A baby needs nine months, not the four I’ve had with my secret. There’s tugging and pulling. Then I have to bear down.

“Keep pushing,” someone commands.

With the last ounce of strength, I muster enough to do what I’m told. I grunt through every burn and ache until there’s a relief from the pressure. Tired and spent, I collapse backward on the hospital bed. It takes me a minute to realize that I don’t hear any newborn cries. There’s nothing but a deafening silence.

“There’s no pulse,” a soft voice sadly whispers.

“Time of death: three o’clock.”

I lay in the hospital room, paralyzed while they continue to work on my lower half. Blessedly, sleep isn’t too far behind once they’re done. When I wake, a kind nurse helps me keep track of the time that’s passed. Six hours. The same nurse tries to get me to eat, but I’m not hungry. Sometime in between the comings and goings of other medical staff watching me, the doctor makes her rounds before the end of her shift.

“You’re a fortunate young woman, Ms. Smith,” she says, head down, peering at my chart. “The slip on the stairs caused the miscarriage, but you’re young. Give your body some time to heal, and I’m confident you’ll be able to have a family soon enough.”

I don’t respond. What would be the point?

“I’m sorry the baby was too small for you to hold at least.” She pauses, then raises her head and realizes I’ve been staring at the top of her head while she spoke. “Ms. Smith, do you understand me?”

I shift on the bed. There’s nothing wrong with my hearing or my vocal chords. I just don’t have anything to say.

“Well then. I’ll be back to check on you tomorrow.”

I’m grateful when she leaves. I’m too emotionally drained to cry. All I do is stare up at the ceiling with a hand over my empty womb.

There’s a knock at my door. I flip over on my side, facing the hard wall. “I don’t need anything. Thank you.” It’s probably the kind nurse at it again since it’s near dinnertime.

The door creaks open. Then a heavy hand falls on my hip. “I caught a flight as soon as I could.”

My tear ducts burst open, spilling all my heartache onto the pillow under my head. Mourning for a child I never knew I wanted and whose existence I’d only found out about two months ago. Irrelevant is how I feel. This is so much worse than the one time Monica sought me out, pretending to want to play, only to call me
irrelevant
instead of my name and tell me we’d never be friends or sisters. She was right. I am irrelevant and so is my empty womb.

“Talk to me, baby girl.”

“Nothing to say.” I sniff back tears.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant? I would’ve shortened my trip, come right back.” I turn at the pain in his words just in time to see him pulling up a chair at the side of the bed. “I would’ve arranged visits to a doctor. You kept this to yourself. Why?” Anger brews below his question.

I don’t have a good reason other than being scared that I’d be abandoned or come face to face with his anger that I’d trapped him. I don’t know my mother’s story, but no one cheers for the other woman ... ever. The other woman never wins ... ever. She’s forever the gold digger and tramp who ruined a marriage. She doesn’t get a marriage offer and isn’t allowed a happily ever after even after she gives birth. And when I found myself in my mother’s exact predicament, I froze. For two months, I froze and debated with myself what to do. It was irresponsible and possibly childish, but it’s what I did.

“I-I don’t know.” I hadn’t thought it all the way through. I realized that I hadn’t had a period for two months the morning after he’d left for the most recent business trip. I was too afraid to pick up the phone to call him. What do you say to the man who’s claimed your heart but isn’t yours to claim in return? “I-I should’ve told you,” I admit. As soon as I found out. Whether he threw me out of the cottage as I feared or forced me to consider other options than birthing the baby—something I’d worried about—he had the right to know.

He doesn’t acknowledge that he hears me. “We can try again.” He cracks his knuckles.

I don’t respond, knowing those sound means he regrets his words. Jonathan’s my favorite subject to study. I’ve watched him on the sly when he’s busy making phone calls or in the open when he’s fallen asleep. I know his tics and pet peeves. I want to tell him he doesn’t have to say anything to appease me, that it’s only right he wants children with his wife and not—

“We’ll try again, Katherine. I’ll be proud to have you as the mother of my child.”

I break apart. Everything hurts.
I hurt.
This
hurts.
All that pushing, and ripping, and heavy pressure. Now, there’s only a dead baby and the man I love who isn’t mine.

“I’m sorry.” He’s careful of the IV drip in my vein when he gathers me up in his arms on the bed.

I’m swamped by my anguish. My head’s spinning, and I don’t know what to make of all these emotions tormenting me.

“I’m so sorry.” One of my hands drifts up, past his scruffy jaw to just under his eyelids where I feel wetness. I
t dawns on me that I’m not the only one hurting for a child neither of us planned for.

Ten

It’s a funny thing about tragedy. It either brings people closer together or pushes them farther apart.

Jon and I are experiencing the former. The change was subtle, beginning during my two-day stay in the hospital. He had clothes brought up for us and a cot put in my room where he could sleep. We ate together. We watched mindless television programs that distracted me from my empty womb and instead made me laugh. He was front and center, asking the doctors and nurses question after question about my health and recovery.

Christmas has come and gone. And even though we’d promised not to exchange gifts, Jon surprised me with a doll that looks just like me. All I had to give him was me, and he told me that was the best gift he’d ever received. Now, we’re celebrating Valentine’s Day, and I have everything planned.

“Something smells good,” he says, coming toward me as I cook dinner for us. He kisses the cheek I lift up to his lips. Then he sits at the small, round table in the eat-in kitchen. “Do you need some help?”

“No. It’s all under control.” A couple days back, I learned his favorite meal as a young boy was lasagna. His mother was known for hers, but he’s not had the courage to have it because it brings up too many memories. “I need you to close your eyes,” I tell him, hoping to keep the surprise a little longer. I peek over my shoulder; he’s set the table, and a floral arrangement is now in the center of the table. He’s waiting for me with his eyes closed. “Jon, open up.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. He stares at the meaty lasagna for a while.
He hates it.
I stand about to take it away.

“It’s okay. Sit back down.” He blinks a couple of times, but I see the glassiness covering his eyes. “This is really nice of you.” He picks up his fork, and I hold my breath as the utensil lowers.

“Now if you don’t like it, it’s fine.”
A salad in the refrigerator is what we’ll have instead.

He doesn’t say anything to me, putting a piece of the lasagna between his lips while I close my eyes.

“Mmm. Katie, this is damned good.” I open my eyes, and he has another piece on his fork with a big smile on his face. “I don’t know how you did it, but this tastes just like I remember it.”

My nerves disappear, and I join him. There are still things I don’t know. Like who his parents were or anything about any other family members who may be alive. But he’s letting me slowly into his life.

“Thanks.” His compliment is the best thing I’ve heard all day. “Beautiful flowers.”

“They’re for a beautiful woman I know,” he says casually. “They’re Asters. Do you know what they mean?”

“No.” I look at the rich petals that, at first glance, look like they’re honey brown, but he spins the container holding the flowers, and I see flecks of green on them. His eyes are bright with happiness while he stares at me as I look at the flowers.

“The color reminds me of your eyes. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Later in bed, after he kisses my naked shoulder and curves himself into my back, he tells me, “Thanks for dinner. As soon it hit my tongue, I instantly remembered my mom’s version. Hers was good, but yours was out of this world amazing.”

I grin, satisfied he’s pleased with my effort. “Will you tell me about her? What was she like?” I’ve wondered about the kind of woman who created a man like Jon. She’d have to be strong to have raised a man of his intelligence and power.

“There’s nothing to tell. She died too young.”

I wait. Surely there’s more than that. But he’s too quiet and I know her death remains too raw for him to talk about. In my haste to fill the silence, I trip over myself with questions that don’t really matter. “What was it like growing up in L.A.? You know the farthest I’ve ever travelled is to Manhattan. Ever seen a celebrity walking down the street?” My brain switches focus again. “What were some things you enjoyed doing in college? I don’t want to hear the things that’s been printed repeatedly in interviews, on blog sites, or newspapers. Tell me about yourself you’ve never told anyone else,” I beg lamely.

His arms tighten around me and end all the questions that’s still floating around in my head. “There’s nothing important about me, Katie. My life didn’t have meaning until you.” His fingertips are like a gentle breeze, cool and soothing along the side of my face. I tell myself not to fall anymore for this man, to secret my heart away so he doesn’t hurt me. “What happened the day you fell? Why were you there?”

This is how he describes the mansion nowadays—the one he never sets a foot in anymore. It’s never
home
or even
former home
. It’s ‘there’ like he has an aversion to the property that I believe is valued in the millions. After he moved me to the cottage, it was an unwritten rule that I never go back to the mansion. That’s Monica’s space, and though the two homes are yards from each other on the same property, we keep out of each other’s way ... mainly I stay put in the house until Jon comes back home.

“I was bored. I went to the library for some books.”
Should I tell him what I overheard?
Monica is many things, but she isn’t a killer. At least, I don’t think so. Then again, I didn’t peg her for an adulterer either, but I’m positive I heard moans. “There was a voice,” I admit low, just to hear his reaction. I don’t need to call Monica’s name.

“Near the library?” His voice is dark and low.

“In the library.”

One of his hands flattens over my stomach that’s tight with anxiety. I still haven’t told him much of that afternoon. But why worry him needlessly if what I heard wasn’t real? He grunts, and I’m left to interpret what it means, whether he believes me or not.

“I left as soon as I heard the voice though. Then ... ”
I was pushed.

“You tripped?”

My heartbeat pounds; my pulse picks up speed, and I’m back on those unforgiving stairs that took the life within me. Trying to get away. The harsh breathing of my unknown assailant on my back. I close my eyes as fear grips me all over again.

“I didn’t trip.” Tears mat my eyelashes together. I shiver within his arms as he grabs me closer to his warmth.

“I’m sorry, baby girl. I should’ve come sooner. I should’ve done things differently.”

***

The following day, I Google the meaning of Aster flowers. Love and patience are what they symbolize
.
I know Jon cares for me though he’s never said the words, but I wonder at the timing of the floral arrangement and what he’s telling me without saying it. One day turns into another and little things begin to occur while Jon’s away on another business trip.

A picture of a dead fetus is taped on the back door of the cottage. I tear it down and ball it up, running back inside. I stay huddled in bed for the next two days afraid of my own shadow. Unwilling to allow a mere picture keep me down, I venture outside on another sunny morning to water the plants at the front only to discover scarlet As littering the cobblestone pathway of the cottage. Eyeing the back of the silent mansion, I pick up all thirty-three of them, all while wondering if the number has anything to do with Jon’s upcoming age in a month’s time.

“Katie, hello, are you still there?” he asks during one of our phone calls. “How are things?”

“Yes, I’m here.” I want to tell him about what’s taken place here in his absence but fear keeps that information to myself. “I have something to tell you but I don’t know um ... ” How do I tell him my suspicion about his wife without sounding like a jealous harpy who’s only trying to cause trouble?

“Mr. Drazen, we have five minutes until your next meeting,” someone says in the background, and I worry there’s not enough time to share what’s been going on here.

“Katie, go ahead,” he insists.

“It’s nothing. At least I don’t think it’s anything.”

“What are you talking about?” I hear the rustling of papers and the movements of other things that indicates Jon’s busy but he’s still on the phone, attempting to hear out my ramblings. “Katie, talk to me.”

Maybe I’m making a mountain out of a molehill
. I scramble through my next words, hoping he understands. “It’s really nothing. I’m sure of it.” If I brush it off, play if off, more than likely he’ll let it all go. I chew on my thumbnail, looking for the perfect opening to tell him that his wife is a possible murderer. “The other day when you asked about the fall ... ” I hate calling it that when I know I was pushed. “There were voices. Inside the library. I only recognized one of them.” He knows who lives inside the mansion. There’s no need for me to spell out the one voice I recognized. Still, I don’t know how to read Jon’s silence and I rush through the rest. “While you’ve been gone, there’ve been a lot of weirdness.”

“What kind of fucking weirdness?” The hot anger in his voice rattles me to the core.

“A picture. Just one. Of a dead fetus.” My eyelids flutter close, seeing the lifeless image once more when a crushing pain grips my heart for the child he and I lost. “Then, a couple days ago, there were scarlet As on the front, right by the door. Thirty-three of them.”

He blows out a hard breath. “All this while I’ve been gone?”

I nod and still say low with fear when the truth settles in my head, “Yes.”

Monica is really behind all of this. She’s so angry about Jon’s affair that she’s doing everything in her power to gain back his attention, his love ...

“I’ll take care of it.” His words and tone sound like they’re walking on a tightrope, a shaky one at that. “Are you okay? Should I come back early?”

It takes me a few minutes to give him the answer he needs to hear, not the one I want to really tell him. “Everything’s fine here.” Jon needs to close this deal he’s told me about. It’s vital to the growth of his company. “I’m fine.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t sound like he buys it, but I hear his name being called in the background. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Okay.” My hands brush away the curtains at the window where I see the blooming Aster flowers I replanted.
Love.
Patience.
I’m in love with Jon, but I’m running out of patience with our relationship, if it can be called that. Still peering out at the growing flowers, I pick up the landline when it rings again.

“Leave now or he dies.”

The anonymous caller hangs up, leaving me shaken and wide-awake.

The next morning, though I’m red-eyed from lack of sleep and scared, I begin to make plans. I’d never ask Jon to choose between his wife and myself. I’m the one who intruded on her life so it’s me who should go. My plan is solid by the time he returns from his trip two weeks later.

“Can we talk?” I need to come clean with him. He’s moving around in the bedroom, getting ready to leave for the day. I just come right out and spit out my plans, “I’m going to move out. I have a job. It’s a temporary position for an administrative position that begins in a week. But I’ll finally be able to use my associate’s degree.” I don’t hear anything from the bedroom, but I keep talking. “I’ve been looking at places too. Yesterday, there was one on Craigslist’s for a studio in Long Island City over in Queens, you know, or I may consider a roommate. But I need to move quick.” It’s still close to Manhattan, but I don’t have to pay Manhattan rental prices. The best part is it’s hours from Jon’s current home in Hyde Park. It’ll be hard, but I need the distance between us. “I can take the train in to my new job.” Now I feel like I’m blabbing, but I can’t help it. It’s too quiet in the bedroom. “Jon?”

He comes into the small bathroom with his belt unbuckled and his tie hanging loose around his neck. I don’t recognize the face of the man behind me. He spins me around and lifts me up onto the vanity. “What are you talking about?”
His eyes are like the pits of hell, dark, dangerous, and hot.

I’m tired of being his “personal assistant.” The position has effectively erased the possibility of a relationship with my half sister even though she’s made it clear that’s not what she wanted when we were younger. I’ve fallen in love, but I live in fear. Fear of being left for his wife.

I face him with hands on his chest and ask, “Where is this going, Jon?”
Where could an affair possibly go?

His mouth twists at my question.

A job, a place of my own will return my dignity and help me regain some self-respect. The issue isn’t him or Monica. It’s me. I’m the intruder, the third wheel. It doesn’t matter that he never spends time at the mansion or acts as if he’s a husband in love with his wife. “I can’t do this.” Not anymore. Months back, I believed
this
was all I deserved, that all I could get was borrowed time with a man who wasn’t mine. But the longer I’m with Jon, the more I know I deserve more than sneaky kisses and stolen laughter. “You made me want more, Jon. You did that.” I’ve already given him ten months of my life. Another month spent here, and I fear I’ll never have the courage to leave. “At night when you think I’m sleeping, I hear you. I hear your words, Jon. You speak of my inner beauty. You praise my intelligence. You tell me I’m your light.” His jaw goes slack and some of the anger in his eyes cools. I’m in no place to make demands, but I desperately want more.
What I want, more than air to breathe, is to hear him tell me he wants me, that he loves me!
“This, us, we can’t possibly have a future.” There’s no hope for us, not as we as, not as a man married to one sister but sleeping with another.