Chương 4
Rachel pulled a chair closer.
“Do you have an account in your own name?”
Claire looked at her.
“Yes.”
“Enough for today?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Claire bristled.
“I’m not helpless.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I know.”
The apology came out smaller.
Rachel leaned back.
“My sister went through a divorce when she was pregnant. Different circumstances. But there was one thing she kept doing.”
“What?”
“Trying to solve the whole rest of her life before dinner.”
Claire looked down at her belly.
“What did you tell her?”
“That she was annoying.”
Despite herself, Claire smiled.
Rachel continued, “Then I made her eat a sandwich.”
“Was that medically indicated?”
“Extremely.”
Claire’s car arrived at noon.
She left through a staff exit because the reporter was still downstairs.
The sun outside was bright enough to hurt.
In the back seat, Claire watched strangers cross streets carrying iced coffee, grocery bags, dry cleaning, flowers. A dog barked at a delivery truck. Two teenagers argued at a bus stop. Somewhere between the clinic and her house, she realized Daniel’s wedding broadcast was probably still playing on televisions all over the city.
She opened social media once.
She closed it within seven seconds.
There were photographs already.
Daniel kissing Elise beneath an arch of white flowers.
Daniel’s mother standing in the second row.
His brother Luke beside her.
Claire stared at Luke’s face.
Three weeks ago, Daniel had given blood.
Or someone had.
Luke Bennett was thirty-five. Same dark hair. Similar build.
Claire’s stomach turned.
She enlarged the wedding photograph.
Luke wore sunglasses.
That proved nothing.
She saved the image anyway.
The Bennett house stood on a quiet street lined with old maples and expensive renovations that pretended not to be expensive. Claire had designed their kitchen herself after leaving her architecture firm four years earlier. Daniel had called the renovation her “beautiful unemployment project,” a joke she had laughed at until she realized, months later, that he had not meant it entirely as a joke.
Her key still worked.
She had been half expecting it not to.
Inside, the house smelled faintly of coffee.
Daniel’s coffee.
His mug sat in the dishwasher.
He had not flown to London from Boston.
He had left for California.
She set her bag on the kitchen counter and stood without moving.
There was a grocery list attached to the refrigerator with a magnet from Maine.
Milk.
Blueberries.
Greek yogurt.
Dish soap.
Daniel had written dish soap.
Claire pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.
The detail nearly destroyed her.
Not the bride.
Not the television.
Dish soap.
Three nights earlier they had stood in this kitchen discussing whether the unscented brand cleaned pans well enough. Daniel had kissed the side of her head while she complained about heartburn. Then he had written dish soap on the list before flying across the country to marry another woman.
Claire pulled the grocery list down and folded it into quarters.
She did not know why.
She put it in her bag.
Then she went upstairs and vomited.
Afterward she sat on the bathroom floor, sweating, one hand resting on her stomach.
The baby moved.
“I know,” Claire whispered. “I’m being dramatic.”
She stayed there another minute.
Then she called the one person she had refused to call from the clinic.
Her older sister answered, “How was the scan?”
Claire said, “Nora, I need you to come over.”
Silence.
“What happened?”
“Daniel got married this morning.”
Another silence.
Then, “I’m sorry, what?”
“To someone else.”
Nora did not ask whether Claire was joking.
She said, “I’m leaving now.”
“Bring food.”
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“I’ll bring food.”
Nora arrived thirty-four minutes later with two grocery bags, a laptop, and the expression of a woman prepared to commit a misdemeanor if required.
She put the groceries down.
“Where is he?”
“California.”
“Good.”
“That sounded threatening.”
“It was geographic.”
Claire sat at the kitchen island.
Nora looked at her for several seconds.
Then she crossed the room and hugged her.
Claire lasted perhaps three seconds before she began crying.
Not elegantly.
Not silently.
She pressed her face into Nora’s shoulder and made the humiliating sounds people made when their bodies stopped cooperating with dignity.
Nora did not tell her to be strong.
She rubbed Claire’s back and said, “I’m here.”
When the crying stopped, Claire felt embarrassed by the wet patch on her sister’s shirt.
“Sorry.”
“I have a washing machine.”
“He canceled my insurance.”
Nora pulled back.
“What?”
“He submitted something saying we’re divorced. My maternity coverage ended today.”
Nora’s face changed.
“And he moved most of the money out of the joint account.”
“What else?”
Claire gave a small, exhausted laugh.
“Oh, there’s a blood impersonator.”
Nora stared at her.
“A what?”
Claire told her.
It took almost twenty minutes because saying the facts aloud made them sound less believable.
Nora interrupted three times.
Once to swear.
Once to ask whether the baby was medically okay.
Once to ask, “Do you have copies of everything?”
That question steadied Claire.
“Some.”
“Then we start there.”
Nora opened her laptop.
Claire watched her sister create a folder on the desktop.
INSURANCE.
BANK.
MEDICAL.
MESSAGES.
“Don’t delete anything,” Nora said.
“I know.”
“I’m saying it anyway.”
“Fine.”
“Screenshot the account balance.”
Claire did.
“Download whatever statements you can access before passwords suddenly change.”
Claire did that too.
For the next hour, they performed boring acts of survival.
They saved PDFs.
They photographed the paper notice Megan had given Claire.
They exported text conversations.
They wrote down the time of Daniel’s calls.
Claire called the insurance plan and spent eighteen minutes listening to hold music before a representative named Jo told her the system reflected a dependent termination based on marital-status documentation submitted through the employer benefits portal.
“What documentation?”
“I’m not able to see the underlying file.”
“Can I dispute it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
May you like
Jo explained the appeal process and gave her a reference number.
Claire wrote it on the back of an envelope.
