The Diary Read online

  My pregnancy kept progressing in the same reassuring fashion, our son developing the way he should. Every day we could feel him kicking against our hands as we put them on my stomach. Things couldn’t go any better.

  This was why, when my water broke and I was rushed to the hospital to deliver, neither of us was prepared for the outcome of the birth. Jason was with me in the delivery room, wearing green scrubs and a hat like everyone else in there, helping me to deliver.

  Pushing out Matt went easier than I had thought, only taking an hour, and wasn’t nearly as painful as I had feared. I had refused all offers of pain medication for fear of harming the baby. To prepare for a natural birth, I had instead spent many, many hours practicing proper breathing to be able to better handle the pain associated with the delivery. As soon as it began to hurt, I put what I had learned into action, Jason helping me along the way. My practice paid off because the pain soon became manageable.

  When the baby was finally out, the doctor held him up and both Jason and I waited for him to begin screaming. I glanced at the doctor with eagerness, but the seconds ticked by and no loud wail filled the delivery room. It was perfectly quiet around us, so quiet that I could hear the rustle of the doctor’s scrubs as he moved the little boy around in his arms.

  Dr. Gustafson looked at me over the baby against his chest.

  “His heart isn’t beating,” he said. “We’re going to have to do some resuscitation.” His gray eyes flicked between me and Jason. “But don’t you worry. I think he’ll be just fine.”

  With those words, said in a tone and with face that didn’t instill much confidence, the doctor left the room with Matt.

  When he returned two hours later, his arms were empty.

  Chapter 4

  As I think back to that horrible day, I’m glad that I decided to hold my dead little boy in the end. It was the hardest decision I ever had to take. On the one hand, I worried that if I got him in my arms, I would never let him go. When someone tried to take him from me later as someone inevitably would, I wouldn’t let them because it would hurt too much. On the other, if I didn’t get to at least see him for a while, I feared that I would regret it forever and never have a chance of moving on. Even as I lay there paralyzed with sorrow, somewhere within the deepest recesses of my mind, I knew that eventually I would have to leave the hospital bed and try to live again no matter how impossible that seemed now.

  With the tears streaming down my cheeks, I finally made up my mind to hold him and look at him.

  I was in a different room and in a regular bed when a nurse came in with Matt and placed him in my arms. Jason was sitting next to me in a chair, trying to comfort me. Unlike me, who had turned into a blubbering mess from the moment I realized that Matt was not going to make it, Jason had been stone-faced and said very little. But a few minutes after the nurse left the room that changed. I had never seen my husband cry before—he wasn’t the kind of man to whom tears came easily—but as we sat there together, peering down at the bundle that looked so perfect, yet wasn’t, I noticed that his eyes had gotten red and glossy. It didn’t take long before one tear after another rolled down his face and landed on the part between my neck and shoulder, right above the hospital gown’s neckline.

  Finally, a solemn-looking nurse came in to remove the dead baby from us. She was lucky that I had gotten so weak from all the crying by then that I didn’t put up much of a fight. I swear I passed out after that from sheer dehydration, having shed so many tears.

  I don’t know how or when I ended up in my own bed, but the next time I opened my eyes, I was in our bedroom at home and Jason and my mom sat next to me. They looked sad and worried. My mother put a hand on my forehead the way you do to check if someone has a fever and asked me how I was feeling.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but instead of speaking I just closed it again and turned my face away from her. No words could ever accurately express how much pain I was in, so why even try? Besides, my throat ached.

  “That’s okay, honey,” my mom said in a soothing tone. “You talk when you’re ready. But you need to at least drink something.”

  Gently, she made me face her and slid an arm under my neck. Making me sit up a little, she held a cool glass of water in front of my lips. I had a couple of sips, then turned my face away.

  “Try to have some more,” she urged. “We must get you hydrated or you’ll feel even worse.”

  “No,” I managed to say. “I can’t. Not right now.”

  “Okay, sweetie,” she said, and out of the corner of my eye, I watched her put the big glass on the nightstand. “It’s right here when you want to drink some more.”

  I rolled over on my side, away from Jason and my mom, so I couldn’t look into their faces. Doing so just made me hurt more, reminding me of exactly why I was in so much pain. Instead, I stared out the bedroom window, into the overcast, rainy sky, feeling like an empty, useless shell of a person. The miserable weather couldn’t have fit my dark mood any better.

  Jason and my mom and then my sister and father took turns staying with me those first few days. It could not have been easy for any of them. Eating out of the question, I just drank water or juice every now and then. If they tried to make me eat something or asked how I was doing, I hissed at them to stay away and leave me alone. If they dared turning on the light in the ceiling, I screamed at them to instantly turn it off again. I craved darkness all the time, silence all the time. From the moment I woke up in the morning until I fell asleep again, I either stared out the window or cried uncontrollably.

  I lost track of time, but I believe something like two weeks passed before I agreed to leave my bed for reasons other than just going to the bathroom and of course to attend Matt’s funeral. I would not have made it there had it not been for the three valium pills I took before, keeping me in a daze that entire day. Another week passed before I ventured out of the apartment to get some fresh air and mild exercise. Jason had been the one who convinced me that I needed to get out a little, take a short walk around the block.

  I couldn’t stand the way Jason was talking to me during this time, treating me like I was a fragile porcelain doll that would shatter at any moment. Each time he tried to engage me in conversation, I told him to be quiet in a sharp voice. I told him he was driving me crazy, that I couldn’t stand the sight of him. Having sex was definitely out of the question. If he so much as tried to touch me, I reacted as if he had burned me, screaming at him.

  The despair within me continued with the same intensity for the next several weeks, and I kept lashing out at Jason whenever he dared try to reach me in some way. Only when I finally agreed to go to see the psychiatrist he had contacted for me to get some medication, a woman named Ruth Meyer, did things start to get better. I’m still not sure how he succeeded convincing me to go; maybe the depression had already begun to subside by itself by then. All I know is that, slowly but surely, I became more like myself again, the aggression retreating first, then the heavy sadness. It didn’t go away completely, but I was feeling better, much better, almost back to normal some days.

  When I could go an entire week without suddenly starting to cry without warning, we decided it was time for me to get back to work. The worst part was over and I needed to return to my regular life. Doing so would make me feel even better. I needed to keep pushing forward, try to be happy again.

  I lower my hands from my mouth now and find the diary in my purse on the chair beside me. As if it has become magnetic, I feel compelled to open it to the page where the words I killed her are written in glaring caps. I need to read them again.

  Staring at the terrible words, it seems they burn my retina like they’re made of acid that splatter into my eyes. Even so, I can’t stop looking at them. Once more I’m convinced that they are in fact true, and that everything I have read up until the point Jason wrote those three jarring words is also true. The notion that this is only he free-writing parts of a novel is only wishful thinking; it’s too
contrived to have any chance of being true. The feeling that accompanied me when I left the hospital and stayed with me for many days, a feeling of being an empty shell, expands within me as I come to these conclusions.

  I wonder if it was right after the birth that he began his affair with Celeste—that is the name of his mistress—or if it had already been going on for a while. It’s hard to tell exactly when their relationship started based on his notes since they’re not accompanied by dates.

  The only thing I can be sure of is that it lasted for quite a while. My depression has been going on for about four months now, so they sure had plenty of time to get to know each other. Based on his diary, they spent a lot of that time in hotel rooms, fucking in ways we have never done. Sometimes it was getting quite rough apparently.

  I laugh without mirth, a sense of disgust mixed with jealousy rushing over my skin. Who knew my husband, a man who likes to be in charge in bed, was into having the hot wax of a lit candle dropped onto his bare chest and back? Being whipped with a riding crop whip? Having his nipples clamped, his eyes blindfolded and his hands tied up? I can’t help but wonder if I would have discovered any traces of their BDSM games on his body over the past few months had I seen him naked. I probably would have, I decide. No wonder he wasn’t all that eager to have sex with me.

  I go up to the window in the kitchen. As I gaze out onto the busy street far below, I wonder what it was that made him decide to kill her in the end. It doesn’t say in the diary. There are only scenes with them meeting each other and then, abruptly, are those three terrible words written across an entire page.

  Was she in love with him? Had she threatened to tell me about her, given him an ultimatum? Had he then realized that it was me who he really wanted and feared that I would leave him if I found out what he had done to me? Based on the part right before those three words, it does seem like this is the case. He couldn’t know that I would have forgiven him if only he stopped seeing this woman. Celeste. I snort out loud. Sounds just like the name of a stripper or a street walker. But based on the pages in his diary, she was just a regular woman he met one night at a bar in Manhattan. Someone who used to frequent the same bar as he did, on her own too, apparently.

  Or had her death been an accident? Had they engaged in dark, sexual games at the time, games in which she was the submissive instead of he, games that included choking and he held on a moment too long…? Judging from the several pages in which he describes what they did to each other, it sure doesn’t seem like an unlikely scenario.

  I shake my head at myself then, rake my hands through my unwashed hair. No, it’s ridiculous. It simply cannot be true, none of it. I would have known if Jason was unfaithful to me for that long, depressed or not. I would have felt it, seen signs, something out of the ordinary. I really can’t believe that he would ever deceive me in any way, no matter how difficult these last few months must have been for him when he had no choice but to put up with me and my moods. Not the way we love each other. He would never take such a risk, risk losing me only to make himself feel better momentarily and then write about it in a diary that I could find. A diary that I have found.

  No, they are just not true, I assure myself once again. I didn’t marry a man capable of murder. If it happened and it was an accident, he would have told me about it. I know this man. He doesn’t have a deceitful bone in his body. He is someone with a strong sense of right and wrong. Besides, at this point in our marriage, I would have discovered that my husband secretly craves being dominated, enjoys a woman who can inflict pain upon him. I huff loudly. I’m not that clueless! Therefore, there has to be a perfectly innocuous explanation to what I have read today.

  I turn around and head toward the bathroom to take a shower. I have errands to run before my dinner date with Jason tonight. I have yet to shop for clothes to wear at the office on Monday. Having lost so much weight, most of my clothes are baggy on me now and I want to look polished when I return to work, not sloppy. Surely the news of my stillborn baby and subsequent depression have spread all over the firm, so it’s paramount that I carry myself as someone completely in charge of her emotions and mind. Otherwise I can look forward to losing everything I have worked so hard for. People have little respect for emotionally unstable individuals in this world.

  I hurry into the bathroom and turn on the shower. It will have to be a quick one. Who knows how long it will take to find the right outfits? I’m going to need at least three different ones, not to mention something cute for tonight, and I don’t have more than a few hours before I have to get ready for dinner.

  And when I’m at dinner, I will find out exactly why Jason wrote all those horrible words in his diary.

  Chapter 5

  Jason is waiting for me in the bar when I arrive at the little restaurant on the Upper East Side, wearing the same elegant suit he wore when he came by to check on me earlier. He stands with his back to me.

  I walk up to him and touch his shoulder lightly. He turns around and smiles when he sees me. He leans in to kiss me on the cheek, placing a hand at the small of my back. As before, he smells of wood and the city mixed with Chanel Platinum Egoiste.

  “You look beautiful,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I reply and smile back. I found several things to wear for the office sooner than I’d expected while shopping, as well as a great cocktail dress that I’m wearing right now. Returning home early gave me plenty of time to get ready for our date night. I feel beautiful with my smooth, shiny mane of light brown hair and carefully applied makeup. Being a tiny size two adds to the wellbeing brewing inside me. I’m also wearing stilettos, which makes me the same height as those gazelle-like girls I used to envy back in college. Thankfully, I don’t envy these girls any longer.

  Going out for a shopping spree turned out to be just what I needed to get into the right mindset for what I have to do. It helps that I’m now even more convinced that there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation to why Jason wrote those words in his diary. When I confront him, he will tell me about them and then everything will be back to normal between us, better even. I’ll make sure of that. As badly as I have treated him lately, he deserves it.

  We’re immediately seated at a table by the windows and a waitress quickly shows up to take our drink orders.

  “I’d like a club soda with a splash of cranberry and a lime wedge,” I tell her while Jason orders a glass of red.

  “How was the rest of your day?” I ask him when she leaves, leaning toward him. He mimics my body language.

  “Pretty busy, but good. How about you?” He puts a concerned hand on my arm. “You feeling okay?”

  I pat his hand. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

  The waitress returns with our drinks and asks if we’re ready to order. Jason tells her we need some more time; we haven’t even looked at our menus yet. I have decided that I’ll work in my questioning sometime during our main course when Jason has had a couple of glasses of wine and is more relaxed. I’m not sure why I need him to be a little under the influence. What difference will it make? Well, the truth is that, even though I feel confident that this will all turn out well, I’m not looking forward having to put him on the spot. But I know that I can’t just let it go. I need to be one hundred percent certain. I sigh inwardly. It’s too bad that I’m not allowed to drink any alcohol; surely the words would have rolled off my tongue with more ease if I were a little tipsy

  Oh, well, I think and have a large sip of my club soda. I can do this sober.

  After we figure out what to eat and the waitress takes our orders, we keep talking about how our respective days have been. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened to either of us. Well, it has to me, but I’m obviously not about to tell Jason that right off the bat.

  We finish our appetizers and order another round of drinks. Jason doesn’t normally drink very fast, but I think that me drinking my club soda so quickly tonight spurs him on. My throat keeps getting dry. By the time our entrees are served,
I feel slightly bloated having drunk two big glasses of cranberry-splashed club soda. But I’m finally ready to take care of business. It’s pointless to keep putting it off any longer.

  I put down my silverware and look Jason straight in the eyes, deep into those beautiful baby blues. I experience what feels like a knife stabbing my stomach and dread fills me. Oh, God, what if he did it after all…?

  But the way he smiles at me, with warmth and sincerity as usual, tells me that this is impossible and again I feel stupid for second-guessing who he really is.

  “You look like you have something very important to tell me,” he says before I can get the first sentence out of my mouth.

  “Yes,” I reply, clearing my throat. “When are you going to start writing that novel you always told me you wanted to write?” Not the most subtle opening, but it’s the best I’ve got.

  He looks at me for a long, tense moment during which my heart picks up speed, pounding so hard it feels like I’m all heart suddenly. The expression on his face is unreadable.

  “What made you think of that?” he finally asks.

  I shrug in a way I hope seems casual. “I don’t know. You just seem like you’re a little burned out, so I thought now that I’m going back to work, maybe you could take off work for a few months and finally get going on that book. I know you really want to be a writer, not an ad executive. We can afford it, right?”

  He inhales and puts down his own silverware. “Yeah, I would love to be writing full-time, but I don’t know about me taking off from work, even if we could afford it. I wouldn’t feel good about staying at home writing while you’re slaving away at the office every day.”

  I finish the last of my giant soft drink. “You’re so silly. You know I love my job—well, most of the time—so it’s not like I’m slaving away there. The one who’s slaving away is you, honey. You’re the one who hates his job. So isn’t it time for us to do something about it?”