For the first time in a long time, I sleep like a rock. It’s surprising, given how anxious I was all day. I thought I’d be awake until two in the morning with thoughts racing through my head, which has become the norm lately. But instead, the second my head hits the pillow, I’m out like a light, even though I didn’t take a sleeping pill. I don’t even wake up during the night to pee, which is practically a miracle.
When I get up, Sam isn’t in the bed anymore. He didn’t sleep on the couch or anything, but he slept as far on his side of the bed as possible without being in an entirely different bed. I’ve never fought like this with him in the entire decade we’ve known each other. It’s depressing.
I stumble out of bed and hit the bathroom. When I see myself in the mirror over the sink, I almost gasp. I look awful. My hair has that Bride of Frankenstein look it always gets when I’ve slept too long, and there are a few new gray hairs that weren’t there the last time I looked at myself. There are deep purple circles under my eyes and my cheeks are hollowed out. Honestly, if someone held up a photo of a woman who looked like me and said she was a meth addict, I’d believe it. No wonder Sam was suspicious.
I forgo a shower because I’m suddenly starving. I pad out to the kitchen to get some food… and stop short at the sight of the couple sitting on my couch.
Sam and Monica.
What is she doing here?
“You’re awake,” Sam notes, a clearly forced smile on his lips.
Sam is dressed for work, wearing a crisp white shirt with a tie, and he’s clean-shaven. Even though he might not be wearing Prada or Armani, he looks very good right now. This is the version of Dr. Adler that makes all the undergrad girls fall in love with him. Monica is wearing a blue maternity dress that shows off her substantial cleavage, and her hair looks luscious and silky. The two of them are a really attractive couple. I think of the reflection of myself in the bathroom mirror and wince. Also, I’m wearing pajama shorts and an oversized T-shirt, neither of which is doing me any favors.
“Um, what’s going on?” I say.
“Can you sit down for a minute, Abby?” Sam says.
I finger the rat’s nest on my head. “Can I shower first?”
“No, I’ve got to get to work, and we really need to talk to you.” His brown eyes meet mine, but the usual affection is absent. “This won’t take long.”
I don’t know what they have to say to me, but it’s clearly nothing good. Still, I settle down in the armchair across from them. Monica crosses her legs, smiling kindly at me. I want to punch her in the face.
“Monica and I had a long discussion yesterday,” Sam begins. Ha, I knew he smelled like her perfume! What the hell was that woman doing with my husband the whole evening? “And she has some very valid concerns.”
“Concerns?” I echo.
He glances at Monica, then plows forward. “She’s worried about the adoption, given your recent problems with… you know, drugs.”
“I don’t have a drug problem!” I burst out. “This is all just a huge mistake!”
The two of them exchange looks. I really dislike these meaningful looks they’re giving each other. Monica barely knows him! I’m his wife!
“I think Monica’s concerns are really valid,” he says. “And… well, we’ve come up with a compromise. We’d like you to attend an inpatient drug rehabilitation program.”
My mouth falls open. “You want me to go to rehab?”
He nods. “Yes. There are a lot of great programs. I called up a bunch of them yesterday and—”
“I’m not going to rehab!” This is insane. I’m not going to rehab when I haven’t done drugs even once in my entire life!
Monica puts her hand on Sam’s. I want to reach across the coffee table and strangle her with my bare hands. “I told you she wasn’t going to want to do it.”
“This is not negotiable, Abby,” Sam says. “If you don’t do this, I’m going to allow Monica out of her contract.”
I can’t believe this is happening. How could I be in this situation? I don’t do drugs. The only way it could be in my urine is if someone slipped it to me. But how could that happen? I can’t even think of a time when…
Wait a minute…
“My coffee!” I gasp, pointing at Monica. “You bring me coffee every morning. You must be slipping it in my coffee!”
Monica’s eyes widen. Sam, on the other hand, turns bright red. “Abby, please, you’re embarrassing yourself,” he says.
“Don’t you see?” I cry. “It’s the only explanation!” I glare at her. “And she probably grabbed my keys out of my purse and made a copy, then planted the meth in the drawer.”
Sam drops his head into his hands. “Abby…”
I stand up off the chair, my legs trembling underneath me. “Search her purse, Sam. I bet you’ll find a copy of my keys in there.”
Sam stands up too. “Are you out of your mind, Abby? I’m not searching her purse!”
“I don’t mind if you look through my purse,” Monica speaks up.
“No.” Sam folds his arms across his chest. “You’re out of control, Abby. I mean it. I want you to think about what I said about going to rehab, because if you don’t… well, I just don’t know.”
I stare at him. “What does that mean?”
He’s quiet for a moment, the silence heavy between us. He finally looks down at Monica. “Mon, could you step outside? I need to talk to Abby alone.”
“Of course, Sammy,” she says softly. “I’ll… um, see you later.”
Mon. Sammy. Oh, and later. What does “later” mean?
Monica leaves our apartment, closing the door quietly behind her. She doesn’t lock it though, although she could have, because I’m a hundred percent sure she’s got our keys in her damn bag. She knew Sam would never agree to search her. She’s smart, that one.
It’s very quiet when we’re alone. Despite everything, Sam looks really good in his shirt and tie. I wish we could put all this drug business aside and he would kiss me. But I’m beginning to wonder if he’ll ever kiss me again.
“Abby.” He takes one of my hands in his. That’s promising. “Monica is gone now. It’s just us. Please tell me the truth.”
“Sam…”
“Please.” He blinks a few times like he’s trying to hold back tears. “I won’t be angry with you. I want to help you, Abby. Just… be honest with me. I deserve that after all these years.”
Wow. He’s almost making me wish I were a meth addict.
“I’m telling you the truth,” I say. “Monica has been drugging me.” “Goddamn it,” he says under his breath. He drops his head. “You
understand the position I’m in, Abby, right? This isn’t just a regular adoption. This is my kid.”
“Our kid.”
“No,” he says. “My kid. This is half my DNA. My son. If you decide you don’t want to do this or if Monica backs out, which she has every right to given the circumstances, I still have an obligation to be there for her. I’m not going to walk away from this.”
I feel like I’m going to throw up. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” he says, “please think about this rehab program.” “Sam…”
“Think about it,” he says again. He lets out a long sigh. “I’ve got to go to work. But we’ll talk more about it later. Okay?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I realize at this point I can’t convince my husband I don’t have a drug problem. I don’t see any way out of this.
