Christian slammed the front door of the penthouse, not even glancing at my pathetic self as he strode out.
I am abandoned.
I am standing sock-footed on the frigid, shiny, imported tile in my heather grey leggings, oversized WSU sweatshirt, my dark locks dancing when my world implodes.
It would have taken so little to make me happy. He has managed to make this crisis all about him. Not the baby, not me, but him, the megalomaniacal Christian Grey.
I fully expected a strong reaction from him. Shock. Panic. Disbelief. Bewilderment. Anxiety. A mild freak-out. Anything in this spectrum would have been understandable. But he berated me! His anger, belittlement and his accusation that I got pregnant on purpose is so beyond any response I imagined. Each word that spewed from his mouth branded an indelible, gruesome scar on my soul-flesh.
It hurts to breathe. Instinctively, I fold my arms across my chest, dazed by his assault, and begin to walk slowly through the apartment.
Did he give credence to what Carrick intimated when encouraging him to have me sign a prenuptial agreement? Did Christian ever know me? Did he ever trust me?
At the big window in the great room, I gaze outward. My focus vacillates. At times I see the city, the horizon and the world beyond his Ivory Tower which is the Escala penthouse. At other times, I am afflicted with acute myopia and cannot see anything but my ephemeral reflection in the glass: a knocked-up, ragamuffin misfit Millennial, who drastically changed her way of life over the past four months to conform to what a man, this man, wanted me to be.
But I was happy, right? And he was, too. He was. And there I go again … putting myself down. I know how much it irritates Christian when I do that. And Flynn had picked up on my inferiority complex in our session. Dammit! I have to stop this and get my head together. I have got some serious decisions to make.
In the kitchen, I tear a paper towel from the dispenser, dampened it under the sleek, stainless faucet and I wipe the mascara from my cheeks and chin. I blow my nose and throw some water on my face which cools and soothes my tear-scalded skin. I head upstairs to the master bedroom with a bottle of water in hand, which I grab from the well-stocked Sub Zero refrigerator.
Abandonment does not sit well with me.
I flop into the king sized bed, fluff two lofty pillows behind my head and pull the down comforter over me. I reflect upon how quickly everything happened. I decide that our relationship was nothing more than a futile exercise in building a house of cards: each daring the other to pile on one more shingle or construct one more truss. The card represents a change in our respective, separate lives. For a while, the cards are supportive, but eventually the burden overwhelms. The house collapses. I vision myself on my knees, furiously scrambling to reclaim my own deck with him looming over me. The scenario flashes back to how we meet that day in his office. We have come full circle in my mind.
Ah, the changes we made. And to his credit, he did change, or so it seemed. Christian never dates women or sleeps with any of his sexual partners. I had never even had sex before I met him. Christian is Master of his Universe and never collaborates or compromises with anyone about anything in his personal life, with the exception of his submissive contracts and the hard and soft limits. I, too, make my own decisions and am, or was, very independent. Christian enjoys his BDSM lifestyle. I never knew such a thing exists. Christian has an aversion to being touched, and I have a need to touch him and not worry about causing him agony. And then there is Mrs. Robinson who opened a huge chasm between us.
I take my hand and place it on the area above my pubic bone, right where Dr. Greene pressed when she was doing my transvaginal sonogram.
I don't feel anything, not a micro-baby bump or the feeling of impending motherhood. Nothing. I am numb.
After leaving Dr. Greene's office, I allowed myself to imagine a little boy with the wild hair full of shiny glints of copper and gray eyes or a lovely, dark headed, doe-eyed princess. I thought, foolishly, that Christian might even be excited after the surprise waned. He would excitedly call Grace and Carrick, and proudly proclaim that they would be grandparents soon. He would fall to his knees and kiss my belly and talk to his …
No! Stop it! I won't go there. I am not going to allow him to make me cry again. I must stay focused and make a decision … one that would never cause me to look back and wonder. I won't be afflicted with the 'what ifs' for the rest of my life.
Raise the child by myself. Christian made it crystal clear that he does not want this baby. I won't saddle him with a child that he doesn't want. More importantly, I won't allow a child of mine to perceive that their existence is anything but cherished. My child will know that he or she was longed for and that he or she is special. My tendencies toward low self-esteem are caused, in part, by my long-held belief that my mother was not ready to take on the responsibility of motherhood when became pregnant with me. I was somewhat of a burden to her. She loves me, but, she wishes her life had been different and her dreams had not been curtailed by diapers and debt.
My assessment of Christian's capacity to love had been erroneous. Based on his reaction to the news, I can foresee him shunning and disowning our baby. Carrick, being the conspiracy theorist that he is, will view this baby as a pawn in some kind of twisted scheme to extract money from Christian.
That repulses me! Damn them all! Fuck the Greys and their fortunes! No amount of money can buy them compassion and humanity. I pity them!
Christian's celebrity, if you want to call it that, complicates the proposition of raising our child on my own. The internet has made privacy non-existent and there would come a time when someone, perhaps a down-an-out family member, confidant or amateur sleuth would sell a story to a tabloid: 'Billionaire business tycoon abandons son/daughter before birth. Child marginalized by meager upbringing. Details inside.'
I cannot put a child through such rejection, exposure and ridicule.
Adoption. I have had several friends who were adopted by some wonderful families. I admire women who can selflessly relinquish their children to loving homes when they know they cannot provide what the child needs. For the most part, I think adoption is a wonderful thing. Deserving people who would otherwise remain childless are given the opportunity to raise a child as their own. Society promotes adoption as a good thing. I believe that potential adoptive parents are put through a rigorous screening process. A few bad apples slip through the cracks, but, nobody vets biological parents. It would seem that adopted children are more likely to end up in a loving, stable household.
However, I do know that there are still some vestiges of discrimination against adopted children. It seems so archaic, the concept of a 'bastard child', as though the sins of the father may truly be revisited upon the child.
A college friend of mine came to me once, distraught, when she found out that she was not eligible for membership in well-known women's organization because she could not trace her bloodline back to the Revolutionary War, even though her adopted parents could, in fact, prove such lineage. She also found out that she was excluded from consideration for some scholarships, because she was adopted. I did my best to comfort her as she explained that she felt as though she was in 'identity limbo'. She hadn't made any of the choices about her adoption, yet, she was the one who was paying the consequences. The friend related that she felt childlike and slighted as a human being.
Knowing myself, I am certain that I could never be at peace relinquishing my baby to be raised by others. I would constantly ruminate about my baby and if it was a loving and nurturing adoptive home or if my child had been one of the rare adoption horror stories. Even children placed in loving homes struggle with thoughts about why they were given up and why their birthparents didn't want them. Again, it would be next to impossible to maintain anonymity in the adoption process. After all, I am Mrs. Christian Grey and the media is relentless.
I know the way I am leaning. The thought scares me. I have not known anyone, personally, who has ever had an abortion.
I want Kate. But, I can't tell her. She is too unpredictable … even if I swear her to secrecy; Kate always comes up with ways to rationalize not keeping my confidences when she thinks she is acting in my best interest. She loves me. She would not be judgmental, but, I can't tell her this.
I need to leave. I cannot stand to be in his home another day. I have no idea where he went or when (or if) he will return. I don't even care. I just want to be free from him.
My Blackberry is on the nightstand. I pick it up and begin to scroll through my contacts, heading for his number. He was so sweet before I got married and assured me that he would always be here if I needed him. Perhaps he saw something that I didn't.
Before I call Jose', I think better of it, remembering Christian's penchant for spying. I locate my laptop in my briefcase. I shoot off a short email, telling him that I am okay and not to be alarmed. I ask him if I can stay with him in Portland for a little while. I also warn him not to phone me, but to reply by email.
He did, quickly. He told me that I was always welcome to stay with him.
I then respond by apologizing, and asking him if it would be possible for him to pick me up in Seattle. I assure him that I will fill him in with all of the details when he gets here. I ask him not to tell his father, as I don't want Ray to know until he is stronger.
When I do finally tell Ray the unabridged version of events … Katie bar the door. He will surely whip Christian's young ass to a pulp. Ray never had a trainer teach him kick boxing. He got his grit from working for a living and from being in the Army.