The slap and the call – DailyFeed

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Chapter 6

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“I asked Emma.”

Grant stopped talking.

I touched my tongue to my split lip.

“Yes.”

“Who struck you?”

“My husband.”

Vanessa shut her eyes.

Grant laughed once.

A short breath with no humor in it.

“Come on.”

The younger officer moved closer to him.

“Sir, I need you to stop speaking for a moment.”

“I’m just trying to explain.”

“You’ll have an opportunity.”

Grant looked at me.

That look said everything.

Fix it.

Now.

For years I had responded to that look automatically.

At restaurants.

At galas.

At his parents’ house.

In front of employees.

In front of friends.

He would say something cruel and I would smile.

He would squeeze my arm and I would say I had bumped into a door.

He would disappear overnight and I would tell people he was working.

He would embarrass me and I would protect him from the embarrassment of being known.

The female officer stepped closer.

“Emma, do you need medical attention?”

“My baby moved after he hit me. I’m not bleeding anywhere except my lip.”

“Because you’re eight months pregnant, I’d like paramedics to evaluate you.”

Grant’s jaw tightened.

“She doesn’t need an ambulance.”

The officer finally turned toward him.

“Sir.”

One word.

Grant went quiet.

Vanessa slipped the coat from her shoulders.

She folded it over one arm.

My mother’s coat looked absurd against her black dress.

Suddenly she seemed less glamorous.

Smaller.

Tired.

The heel of her shoe made a sticky sound as she shifted.

The ultrasound photo peeled free and fluttered onto the floor.

Everyone looked at it.

A tiny grayscale profile.

Round forehead.

Small nose.

One curled hand.

My daughter at twenty-two weeks.

I had written her due date on the back.

April 17.

Vanessa stared down.

“I didn’t know that was there.”

I believed her.

For some reason, that almost made it worse.

The photograph had probably fallen from the envelope on my dresser when she took the bracelet.

Or the coat.

Or whatever else she had touched.

Grant looked at the floor and then away.

The female officer bent, picked up the photo and handed it to me.

Her expression did not change.

But her voice softened.

“Is this yours?”

“Yes.”

I held it against my stomach.

The younger officer separated Grant from us.

The female officer asked me questions.

Where had I been standing?

What had happened before the slap?

Had Grant threatened me previously?

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