Free Hush Little Baby by Suzanne Redfearn Page A

that he loves that I’m an architect.
    We watch as another contestant is eliminated, my eyes getting heavy, and as I drift away, it occurs to me all the small things I’ll be giving up if I leave—nine years of shared memories, habits, routines, a shared vocabulary of life and experiences. Never again will I lie on the couch with Gordon rubbing my feet and asking about my day.
    *  *  *
    I must have fallen asleep because Gordon’s carrying me up the stairs. I wrap my arms around his neck and curl into his familiar smell, safe and warm, the way I used to feel in the beginning.
    He tucks me beneath the down comforter we chose together on a road trip we took up north, a year after Drew was born. In those early days, our life included weekend adventures on Gordon’s motorcycle—the wine country, architecture, treasure hunting—discovering the coast and each other. As the years went on, the trips became less frequent.
    I try to remember the last one we took. It was years ago, before Addie.
    I’m certain I didn’t realize it was the last one. At the time, the trips were so precious that it would have never occurred to me we wouldn’t be taking another. I would have thought we’re just stopping for now, for a little while. As soon as things settle down, we’ll start again.
    Then I must have stopped thinking about it. And now, as I snuggle into the comforter we chose together on one of those amazing weekends, I can barely remember.
    “Good night,” Gordon whispers, and he leaves me to sleep, which I do, deeply and peacefully, warm and protected in my bed, in my home, with my family.

19
    I ’m finishing my hair when Gordon walks in from his shift, the sun rising through the window.
    He still wears his uniform—navy with a silver badge over his heart and five ribbons of color above it, commendation for meritorious acts. A shadow of beard lines his jaw, and the crow’s feet etched at his temples squint with fatigue, but his eyes sparkle, the scintilla twinkling between glass and sky, the stench of sweat and death surrounding him.
    He reaches over my shoulders, wraps his hands together over my breasts, and brushes my cheek with a kiss. I will myself not to stiffen at his touch and twist around to kiss him the way he likes to be kissed. His breath tastes like beer, but this morning, there’s no perfume.
    “How was your shift?” I ask.
    His eyes blaze as he stares at my reflection. “Rough night,” he says, his gaze leveled on mine in the mirror. “Shotgun deaths are brutal.”
    I don’t want to react and didn’t think I did until I realize the brush is frozen in my hand, suspended mid-stroke. His eyes dance as I pull it through the rest of the way.
    He kisses my neck. The odor of putridity is overwhelming. The scene must have been awful.
    “I still need to give you the rest of your birthday present,” he says.
    I nod. It’s all I can do.
    He turns me to face him, peels my robe from my shoulders, and it slithers to the ground.
    I want to turn off the lights or drape a towel around my waist. My hips are beginning to resemble my mom’s, my thighs bulging like jodhpur riding pants. But his eyes aren’t on my swollen quarters; instead, they’re intensely focused on my face.
    With one hand, he cradles my chin so he can kiss me, with the other, he closes the door. I kiss him back knowing this is what he expects.
    Shotgun deaths are brutal.
    His lips didn’t move. It was only my imagination that he said it again.

20
    O n the way home from work, I stop at the drugstore. My heart pounds as I irrationally scan the parking lot for Gordon.
    He expects me to get pregnant, and if I don’t, he is going to become suspicious, and when he discovers the truth, which he will, he always does…a shiver shudders down my spine…a second defiance this large will send him over the edge.
    I swallow. He’s going to find out. If not today, then in a month or in a couple of months. He’s going to find out.
    I can’t have