Unmaking Marchant

24

SURI

I’m crying, but I’m trying to be quiet. This is Marchant’s moment—his pain—and I don’t want to detract from it by highlighting my own.

But I can’t stand to see him like this. I can’t stand to see him hurt. All I want is to do something to help him, but all I can offer is my arms.

I only get to hold him for a moment before he nudges me off him and turns around to face me. His eyes are red and wet. His grief has changed his face, so he looks like a stranger. Older. Harder.

“Does that answer your question? About my daughter?” His eyes bore into mine.

“Marchant, I’m so, so sor—”

“No.” He holds up both hands. “I don’t want to hear that shit. Save it for someone who deserves it.”

He stalks out of the room, leaving me again.

I hold my breath, counting down the hours, but he doesn’t return. It seems wrong to go looking for him. Disrespectful of his space. So I don’t leave the bed. It’s a burden, lying here when I want so much to check on him. Of course, it’s nothing compared to what pain he must be feeling. After he leaves, I look around for the picture, which I find sitting on the edge of the bed. I don’t have the heart to look at it, so I tuck it under my pillow.

I wonder how I would react if I made such a huge decision when I was in an altered state. If I’m right about what he was saying, Marchant “woke up” from the haze of his mania to find out what was going on, and the deed was done. And it seems like, though abortion is a choice for some, it might not have been the choice he would have made. Maybe he’s right; maybe Marissa made the choice she made because of how he reacted when she told him she was pregnant. But maybe she didn’t. Maybe it’s something she would have done regardless.

And as for how he acted when he was in a manic state?

It’s not his fault.

I wish I could tell him that instead of lying here hugging my pillow. I’m staring at the curtains, wondering if he’s in the house somewhere or out walking the grounds, when I hear the sound of something shattering. I’m up in a flash, headed toward the bedroom door.

I hear footsteps; a second later, the door bursts open, and I feel a warm rush of relief—expecting Marchant. I get a brief glimpse of a woman’s slim figure and long hair before I hear a cry, and something sharp stings my neck. I’m down on my knees before I know what happened. I press my hand against the spot that hurts and come away with wet fingers.

“Holy shit!” My heart is pounding as I stand back up on legs that shake. It’s dark in here; so dark I can hardly see. I’m panicking. I turn a circle, shielding myself with my arms like I do in Tai Chi, and I’m grabbed from behind.

“Die, bitch!”

I feel another slashing sting across my cheek, and strong hands throw me to the floor. I’m kicked just once before I scream.

Then Marchant is bursting through the door. The pain flares into agony as he lifts me up onto the bed.

“Suri, what happened? Talk to me, please, baby!”

“Where is she?” I croak.

Somewhere very nearby, glass shatters again, and I feel more than see Marchant hop over the bed. I’m curling into a ball, panting through the terrible stabbing in my ribs, when he yells out the broken window, “Son of a bitch!” He lunges for the cordless landline, and as I hear him barking orders to security, I whisper: “Wasn’t a…son.”

MARCHANT

As soon as I turn on the lights and realize Suri is okay, I can dial my terror back a notch. She’s got a slash on her neck, another on her cheek, and the doctors I called out to the house are pretty sure she has some bruised ribs. But she’s okay.

The cops are on their way, and Dr. Ronland is coming back in a few hours with a portable X-ray machine. Until then, I’m trying hard to keep my shit together.

To do this, I can’t talk to her. Can’t even stand too close to her. If I do, I’ll crack. I can fucking feel it.

After she’s swallowed pain pills and I get her comfortable in my bed, I pace the hall that adjoins my bedroom to the den, shifting my attention from the broken window in the foyer to the small, still figure under the blankets on my bed.

How did this happen?

The cops should be here anytime. Suri’s sleeping. I won’t let them disturb her for an interview; they’ll have to go through me. Meanwhile, I’ve called in even more security. There are now almost two dozen guards patrolling the ranch. I’ve taken the liberty of contacting Lizzy, who said she could arrange to have Suri’s plane come get her in just a few hours. I’m taking no more chances. I don’t care if she hates me for sending her away. I just want her to be alive.

That thought makes me sweat. I lean against the doorway of the bedroom, working my jaw until it pops. I use the pain as a distraction from my feelings, but my mind still races. Who attacked Suri—and why? Was she coming for me? If so, why did she call Suri a bitch?

Marissa is an obvious suspect, no matter how little I want her to be. Dave is finding out everything he can about her right now. I’ve alerted the security guards to watch for a blonde woman, and I plan to tell the police the same thing. I have no idea what Marissa might look like now, but Dave should know soon. He’s a good P.I., and I trust him.

I’m feeling lightheaded, so I breathe into the crook of my arm. But the guilt I’m trying so hard to keep at bay collapses on me.

I shouldn’t have left her in here earlier.

Oh, God.

What would I do if something worse had happened?

I watch her pretty, sleeping face through bleary eyes, and suddenly I just can’t stay away. I walk over to the bed and climb up on it as gently as I can. I lie there with my arms folded around my chest, because I’m worried about waking her.

I shut my eyes and feel the weight of the last twelve hours. I’m embarrassed. Ashamed. That I broke down in front of Suri. That I left her here alone. I can’t seem to stay in one place to save my fucking life. I’m good at running away. Maybe because I’ve never had anyone to stick around for.

Because I shouldn’t, I remind myself.

I’ve got to come to terms with this. As soon as she’s feeling well enough to travel, Suri will be leaving. I’d been worried that it might be difficult to get her to go, but I’m pretty sure after what I told her earlier this morning, it won’t be quite so hard.

I watch her chest as it rises and falls. I scoot a little closer, even though I know I probably shouldn’t.

I don’t want to disturb her, so I wrap my arm around her pillows—and pause when something cool bumps my arm. I fish around under her pillow as gently as I can and come out with the ultrasound image.

She put this under her pillow? I wonder why.

My chest aches as I look at the grainy, black and white image. I don’t know why I keep it in my room. I guess for the same reason I got the tattoo. I forget so many things… Wouldn’t it be wrong to let myself forget this one?

My eyes sting, and I sink my teeth into the inside of my cheek. Doesn’t work. Shit leaks all over my face regardless.

I cover up with my arm, feeling glad no one’s around to see me weeping.

SURI

Marchant must be really tired. He slept through the police officers’ drop-by, as well as a visit from the window repairwoman. Combined, both visits lasted less than two hours, but still, I’m surprised he didn’t wake up.

Now that I’ve taken some painkillers and figured out how to move without jarring the left side of my chest too much, I’m feeling a little more human. It still hurts to climb back into bed, but it’s where I want to be.

I was asleep when Marchant climbed into bed beside me, and before that, the house was filled with his security team and the doctors who stitched my neck up and put a big sticker on my cheek. Which means we haven’t had a single moment alone since he told me…what he told me in the middle of the night.

I watch his face carefully as I settle on my pillows. When he doesn’t move, I scoot a little closer. There’s a big, annoying pillow between the two of us, so I move it. I take my time sidling closer and closer to him. It dawns on me that he might not want this, but I’m having a selfish moment. I just want to feel the warmth of him.

As I press myself against him, I long to feel the safety of his arms around me. Then he stirs a little, and his arm loops over me. It hurts my chest a little, but it feels good, too.

On impulse, I scoot even closer, pressing my cheek against his lightly bearded one.

“Oh, Marchant…”

I shut my eyes and kiss him lightly on the neck. Very softly, I whisper, “Please be nicer to yourself. You’re a good guy.”

Tears glitter in my eyes as I think about leaving here soon. After what happened this morning, I know there’s no way he’ll let me stay.

Just like I know that when I go, I won’t be coming back.

He’s so shut off from everyone, and he thinks what he thinks with such conviction…I’ll never be able to change his mind if I’m not nearby. I barely have a foothold now, but at least I have one.

I watch his right hand, lying on his chest. It rises and falls evenly, which means he’s still asleep. I take the risk of wrapping my arm around his hips.

It’s hard to think about the meaning of the tattoo under my arm. I picture a younger Marchant, confused about what’s happening to him and anguished over what he perceives to be an unforgivable mistake.

“Please be easier on yourself,” I whisper to his sleeping face. “I can’t stand to leave you like this.”

I think of all the time we’ve spent together in the days I’ve been here. He hasn’t always been the perfect guy, but we’ve had fun. More than I expected, that’s for sure. More than I’ve ever had with…well, with most people.

How funny that is. I wouldn’t have thought. But as I look at his closed eyes and his bearded cheeks, I feel like I know him. I feel like’s mine.

The realization makes me flush. I feel raw and off balance, elated and sick. And it dawns on me. “I think I love you.”

My sleeping beau opens his eyes.