Love Triangle: Three Sides to the Story (7 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

George

The phone rang at two in the morning. I peered blearily at the number. The name Karen flashed on the screen. I jumped up and Marie stirred beside me.

“Hello,” I whispered. My voice sounded raspy. I cleared my throat.

“George, I am at the hospital,” Karen mumbled.

Marie sat up beside me and turned on the lamp.

“Are you having the baby?” I asked stupidly. I was uncomfortable with Marie behind me.

“
Yeeeees.”
Karen hissed.

“I’ll be right there.” I hung up the phone and turned to Marie. I felt uneasy. I had to go to the hospital. I knew she would understand that but the pain of knowing that I was about to be a father and she was not involved caused me to tremble slightly. Another human being who would depend on me was now more important than the logistics of our relationship.

She touched my arm. “You should call your mother and father.”

I nodded.

“Does she have support at the hospital?”

“Yes, her mother and her friend Shauna.”

“Is the nursery finished?” Marie swallowed, she was trying her best. It was basic concern. This was no longer just them. A child was now involved.

“I did that last week.” I had to get up. I looked around the room for something to pull on. Marie got up and found a pair of jeans and a green cable-knit sweater. She handed it to me.

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth.” She went back under the sheets and stared at me silently as I pulled on my sweater.

“It’s back way,” she grinned.

I shrugged out of it and pulled it on the correct way.

“First babies usually take a while.” She clutched the sheet tightly, and I knew she was hurting but was trying hard to be civil.

That was what we had for the past month, civility. After she forgave me she said she would need time to forget. The forgetting part would not happen with evidence on its way.

Your life is what you make it, my mother used to say. “I’ll call my parents on the way.” I headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth as Marie suggested.

She was still lying in the same position, clutching the sheet when I came back, a look of fear in her eyes.

“Marie … ”

“Go,” she shooed me from the room, “your child should see you first thing, remember that’s what you said when the others were born.” Her eyes were bright with tears.

I left the room burdened down with guilt.

I raced to the maternity ward of the hospital and was asked by a nurse if I wanted to be present during the birth. I hesitated. I was there for my other children, but this was different. I knew Karen was still in love with me. While working on the nursery at her home, I could feel emotions coming from her in spades. That had me guilty too. I was a walking guilt-machine.

The nurse was looking at me and I realised that I had not answered.

“Sure, I want to be at the birth.”

She scrubbed my hands within an inch of its life, and then I put on protective gear.

I was led into the room. Karen was panting and trying hard not to push.

“Not yet,” said the mid-wife who was attending the birth.

I went over to her side. She hung onto my hand and squeezed. I stood there for a long time silently offering my support, silently offering my prayers to God that this child would be healthy.

Karen was in labour for five hours, then she squealed and pushed George Junior into the world. I held him before they took him to be cleaned up. I looked into his squalling face and I loved him. Despite the circumstances, I was happy that he was here.

“Thank you,” I mouthed to a tired Karen.

She smiled wearily and asked, “What time is it?”

“Seven o’ clock,” the matron answered, “one of the quickest first births I have ever seen.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Marie

The children were all in bed on top of and beside me. It was eight o’clock.

No school for us.

It was June first, the beginning of summer.

I will never forget today. George had called earlier and said that he had a son. I had struggled to say congratulations so I only said, ‘Okay’. He was silent for a while then he said he had to go.

Since then I have been thinking that I wanted to escape. His mother had called and I relayed the message.

She sounded ecstatic. An even number, two boys and two girls she had crowed. Then she had tempered her enthusiasm and asked me if I was alright.

What did she think, that I was made of stone? Of course I was not alright and I might never be alright for the rest of my life. I looked at my children. Neither George nor I had told them about this new development in their lives. Timothy woke up and glanced at me, “Mom, I am hungry.”

“Me too,” Gabrielle mumbled, snuggling closer to me.

I got up from the bed hurriedly. “Last one out has to spread the bed.”

The three of them scrambled out and started bickering about who was last. I left them to it and went to the kitchen. My whole family was there; my mother and father, Winsome and Laura, my brother and his wife.

Winsome was fixing fried plantains and scrambled eggs. Laura was frying sausages and my father was juicing oranges with the electronic juicer. My mother was directing the proceedings from the kitchen table. I surveyed the scene and smiled. The support group was here.

“Thanks, guys,” I said, coming into the kitchen.

They paused and looked at me and then continued working.

“So who did George call first?” I asked to no one in particular.

“Me.” My mother touched my hand as I sat beside her. “He said he didn’t want you without support at this time.”

“How thoughtful,” I mumbled.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Winsome asked as she flipped over a plantain in the skillet.

“A boy.”

“He will need his father,” Laura said. Her long nails looked like they were on the verge of breaking as she tussled with the sausage tin. “Statistics show that boys who grow up with their father are more likely to know how to relate to and treat women when they grow older.”

“Did you study this for one of your classes or read it in the newspaper?” Winsome asked sarcastically.

“Grandma … Grandpa.” The kids marched into the kitchen, shouting.

The blackness that was waiting to surround me did not get the chance to do so that morning.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Karen

He was the sweetest baby ever born. She hung over him in the nursery and made sure that he was breathing. He was so still. A miniature George. She could already see the resemblance. He looked very much like his father, which means he would also resemble his older brother, Timothy.

It was time she moved on in her heart, where George was concerned. Since her release from the hospital two months ago, she realised that she had to do two things. She had to let George go and she had to meet his wife.

From her observations George was no longer interested in her as a potential mate, but he loved his son. It killed him inside to not share his child openly with his family and with his wife. She could tell because she knew him.

She knew he was racked with guilt, and she knew she contributed to it, deliberately overplaying little things so that he could drop what he was doing and come to her. She was not feeling good about herself because of that, she felt like the villain of the piece. She was making him miserable because he did not choose her over his family. The same values that she loved in him, she hated when it was demonstrated toward a family he already had.

She had to meet Marie. She had obsessed so much over the woman that she could not do it for one more day. Probably seeing her might help. Having a face for her fears, her insecurities. Hearing her talk might confirm that she wasn’t right for George, that there was some justification for being with him knowing that he was married.

“Karen,” her mother stood behind her, “I thought I heard something.”

“Just me being anxious.” Karen looked at her mother closely. Through all the upheaval of the last month, her family had stood by her. “Could you stay with Junior for me? I have to do something.”

Her mother nodded, concern in her eyes.

“I will tell you when I get back.”

Karen dressed carefully in black pants that were a bit smugger than before she was pregnant and a green emerald blouse. She brushed out her long, curly hair and put on her signature scent. She looked lovely. Her olive complexion was glowing.

She dialled the house number that she was forbidden to dial, except in cases of extreme emergencies. It was summer and Marie should be home.

The phone rang and a childish voice answered, “Cameron’s residence. This is Rachel Cameron. How may I assist you?”

Karen’s heart melted. It was the youngest brat on the line. She remembered her lack of interest in them before and shuddered. Now she also had a child, who might one day sit in the back seat of his father’s car and make fun of someone up front.

“May I speak to Mrs. Cameron please?” Karen asked politely.

“Mommmmeeeeeeeeee,” the little voice squeaked as it faded in the background.

“Marie Cameron here,” a husky voice later said on the phone. She sounded like a disk jockey from a night-time programme.

I had to breathe deeply and count slowly in my head. In all that time she did not get impatient. I knew she was on the phone because I could hear the background, she was absolutely still. No panicky
hello, hello
for this woman.

“Er … Mrs. Cameron.” I sounded like an immature idiot.

“You can call me Marie.” Her voice was warm. Oh hell. She didn’t even know who it was and she was telling me ‘
You can call me Marie
’.

“Marie, I am Karen Paisley.” A little more confidence and I would be okay.

“Hello, Karen.” Marie had a slight sound of weariness in her voice now. She sounded more human.

“Can we meet somewhere? I would like to talk to you.”

The pause seemed infinitesimal.

“Where?” she finally asked.

"Uh … " I had not thought of that. “Is Fran’s Oasis okay for you?” That was a sophisticated restaurant with almond trees outside and relative privacy. I had always pestered George to take me and he had always refused, saying there were other places.

“What time?” The weariness in her voice was gone.

“In an hour?” I asked, already regretting my impetuous resolve to meet the wife.

“Sure.” She hung up and I stared at the phone. What did I just do?

I had forgotten that Fran’s Oasis only did bookings in advance. I felt like such and idiot when I saw the reservation desk. I had to call a cab to get there, enduring the traffic for a while. Now here I was, late for an appointment that I had instigated. The lady at the reservation desk looked at me as I stood uncertainly at the doorway.

“Are you Karen Paisley?” She asked me, her tone slightly hostile.

I nodded. Poor service. And how did she know my name?

“Marie is waiting outside. Last table near the lake.”

I looked out. The lake looked amazingly real even though I knew it was man-made. There were mini-waterfalls scattered around the property and almond trees shaded wrought-iron tables. At the lake end was a girl in a red spaghetti-strap top and blue jeans. Her hair was cut in one of those pageboy styles. She looked fresh and young. Can’t be Marie, she was supposed to be in her thirties and probably sad-looking. I looked at the other end and I did not see anyone else that could possibly be Marie. The girl from reservations came up behind me and pointed to the girl in the red top. "That’s Marie."

“Oh, thanks.” I barely glanced at the girl and headed for Marie's table.

She had light brown eyes and toffee-coloured skin. I drew up nearer to her and felt like a fool. All my dreams of her being an old hag were shattering at my feet. She was beautiful.  She stood up when she saw me faltering and smiled slightly.

She was of medium height and shapely. Her eyes were bright and seemed to dominate her face, giving her an almost innocent look. Physically, I had nothing on her, I realised. My breasts were larger, though I comforted myself as I grasped at straws. My mad assumption that one look at me and she would know that George deserved someone better was slowly turning to mush. Sophistication was rolling from her in waves.

“Hi,” I said. I strolled up to her and realised that she was also giving me the once-over.

“Hello, Karen.” Even her response was more mature, I thought despairingly.

She indicated a seat across from her and I sat. She sat down and said, “I told Fran we were just talking, but if you are hungry…”

“No, I am fine. You know Fran, the owner?”

Wasn’t Fran a rich woman who was backed by an even richer uncle?

Marie laughed and leaned back in her chair. “So George never took you here, I take it?”

“No.”

“Fran is his first cousin; she is his father’s niece.”

“George’s father is rich?” I asked incredulously. How come I did not know this?

“Very,” Marie said looking at me closely. “So it wasn’t his inheritance that you found attractive?”

“No, I found him attractive.” I wanted to establish that with this woman. I didn’t and I still don’t want her husband’s money. I just wanted him.

“Why, Karen?” Marie asked quietly. “Why did you get yourself involved with a married man?”

“I love him.” What else was there to say? I love him and I will love him forever.

Marie shrugged. “If I loved your father, would it be okay to have an affair with him?”

“That’s different. George loves me too. We want to be together with our child.”

Marie clasped her hands. “How is George Junior?” Her voice stumbled at George.

“He’s doing well. I am sure George reports to you.” I sounded waspish.

“Why did you want to see me today?” Marie asked

She was completely ignoring my statement about George wanting to be with me. How dare she?

“I wanted to see who my man went home to at nights.” I couldn’t help taunting her, to let her suffer a little. How dare she sit there calmly with that controlled, snobbish look on her face and judge me?

“So now you see.” A waiter came over and Marie ordered a fruit punch. I shook my head when he turned to me. I was no gold-digging slut. I could see that was what she was thinking.

“Weren’t you even a little bit curious about me?” I asked her.

“Of course.” Her expressive eyes still held that terrible composure. “I pretty much got your description from George. It is not the outward appearance that concerns me much though; it’s the heart.”

“You must be God then,” I snapped. Such sanctimonious rubbish.
It’s not the outward appearance; it’s the heart.
Was she born and bred in Hebrew land?

“Far from that.” Marie looked at me ruefully. “I cried for days when I found out that the man I was married to for twelve years cheated on me for a year, and I did not do something about it. I hated you and then I hated him alternately. I was a mess. Then I found out that you were carrying his baby, and I resigned myself to the fact that unless I left George you would always be in our lives. I must admit, though, that when I promised to be with my husband for all times, through thick and thin, it was not a light promise.”

Marie drew in her breath. “This is one of our thinnest times. I didn’t decide to work on my marriage alone, Karen. I know you must feel hurt, after all you must still have feelings for George, but don’t make the same mistake twice by trying to break up our marriage. To imply that you are still having an affair with my husband is a good way to start.”

I felt ashamed. I looked at her clutching her hands together, and I thought how stupid I’d been. I was just a fling for George; I had no part in his committed relationship.

I knew there were tears at the back of my eyes. I could feel them building up. I blinked rapidly.

Marie touched my hand. “When you get married…”

I shook my head. “I won’t.”

She squeezed my fingers. “You are too beautiful to stay single.”

Tears were sneaking down my cheek. I knew it. This woman was being too nice to me.

“When you get married, there will be a time when you are asked to forgive your spouse.” She rubbed my hand gently. “Remember this, Karen. I forgave George and I forgive you. It’s all about forgiveness and moving on with your life. Which reminds me; George needs to forgive himself, and when you are ready to see the world in its proper perspective, you will need to forgive yourself too.

I was sobbing quietly now. My shoulders were shaking. She came over to my side of the table and hugged me.

I hugged her back.

This was why I needed to see her. I needed to know that despite the fact that I messed up big time, she was not holding it against me.