Lie Baby Lie

By Andrea Nourse

Caroline has a one track mind. She wants a baby, and she’s willing to do anything to get what she wants. Her husband promised her she’d have her wish. When a secret from his past threatens to ruin Caroline’s plans, she takes matters into her own hands. His lies soon become her own web of lies and deceit.

Reese is desperate for a child too, but years of infertility and loss have jaded her. Secrets and lies have become second nature. The secrets she’s kept from her daughter. The lies to her husband about pregnancy tests. Reese hides behind these lies, protecting her family from truths that could hurt them and her.

Their lives are woven together in a way neither women understand. An unlikely, fragile friendship is born. Can it withstand the secrets and lies?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrea Nourse
• Release date: Feb 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781370389995

Andrea Nourse

As a child, Andrea found her creative outlet through rewriting the lyrics to the songs she heard blaring through the speakers of her mom’s 1980-something Dodge Charger. In her teens, she found herself drawn to pop and country music and started penning lyrics filled with the pining of teenage dreams. She continued writing songs well into her twenties, but eventually found her way to college where she studied marketing and public relations.It was in her final semester at Middle Tennessee State University that she finally put pen to paper and decided to write a full-length novel. Her first novel, Bittersweet, never made it past the hands of her friends. In November of 2013, Andrea made the commitment to write 50K words in30 days as part of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). That novel, Life is But a Dream, was released in 2014.Andrea's follow-up novel, Happily Ever Never, is set for release in the fall of 2018.Andrea currently lives in Nashville with her husband, Jeff, and their two children, Jackson and Annabeth. She has a B.S. in Mass Communication from MTSU and an MBA from the University of Memphis.

Book preview

One

Caroline

Tears stung my eyes. I bit my lip to keep it from quivering. Studying his face, I tried to will him to speak. To say something. Anything. Specifically, a yes. But I’d settle for a grunt of acknowledgement at this point.

His chest rose and fell steadily with every measured breath. He was thinking. Contemplating. He knew his words would have an impact. He knew I was hanging on whatever shred of hope remained. It dangled in front of me like a carrot. Me, his prized racehorse, watched it sway back and forth, further and further out of reach.

Caroline, he said.

I held my breath.

You know where I stand on this, he said with an air of finality.

No. His answer was no. Still. He would not waver no matter how much I begged or what I promised. What I wanted; no, what I needed, did not matter to him.

I think I might have preferred the silence. In the silence I could pretend there was still a chance. I could hold on to what tiny promise that dangling carrot held, but silence and rejection were all I ever got.

I need you to say it, I whispered. Forget the silence. He needed to be a man and tell me he didn’t care about what I wanted. He didn’t care if he killed his wife’s dreams.

He sighed and shook his head. This wasn’t the first time we’d had this exact exchange and I could tell he knew it wouldn’t be the last.

No, he said, there will be no baby. Not now. Not tomorrow. Never.

The tear I’d been fighting broke free. My lip shook as I tried desperately to hold in the sobs I knew were coming. They’d been coming more frequently lately. As I sat alone in our empty house with my empty womb and empty arms, I cried for the one thing I wanted. The one thing I would never have.

Why? I asked just as I had last month and the month before that. He’d yet to answer that one simple question. Despite his refusal to even consider starting a family, I religiously tracked my cycle and basal body temperature. I knew my body better than I ever had. I drank gallons of water, quit caffeine and wine. My body was ready. I was ready.

And, he never would be.

His face twitched, and his mouth turned down. I couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes, I knew what I would find. His blank stare would be cold and unforgiving.

He wasn’t always this way. Five years ago, he’d promised me a home, babies and everything that came with those. He brought flowers for no reason and came home early just to spend time with me. His words were gentle, and his heart was softer.

As his hand reached for my face, I turned away from him. He took a step towards me and placed his fingers on my cheek.

Ben, don’t, I said. My words dripped with the anger I’d worked to conceal. I just don’t understand. You always said you wanted children. We got married with dreams of a family. What’s changed?

I never should have promised you that, he said, shaking his head.

Why did you?

I wanted you to be happy. I still do.

Bullshit, I spat.

Caroline, he whispered, please.

"No, Ben, you please, I said through my tears. They flowed freely down my face. Each one a reminder of the broken promises. I need to know what changed. I don’t want to walk away from this, from us, but I had expectations. I want to be a mother. I want to have children. I want to have your children."

I don’t know, he said. His eyes dropping from mine.

What? I asked. What are you hiding?

He looked up at me. This time, his eyes brimmed with tears. A sadness I didn’t recognize filled them.

Caroline, he said. His tone sad but edged with a warning.

Ben? What? I shouted. His tears were new, but his avoidance wasn’t. I was done playing his game. I’d just turned 28 and while the clock wasn’t ticking yet, it would be soon. As much as I loved him and wanted him to be the one that gave me the family I craved, I couldn’t wait another five years.

He said nothing. He rocked from foot to foot as he stood in front of me.

I waited for his usual excuses. He was too old now, he wasn’t home enough, let’s buy a bigger house, he wanted to go to Europe again, etc. He had a variety of them he used. All bullshit. Sure, he’d just turned 40, but for men, 40 wasn’t old. He worked long hours, but I was home all day, alone. Our house was well over 4,000 square feet. People with kids go to Europe all the time.

But his usual excuses didn’t come. Nothing did. Silence again.

Ok, let me guess. You just nod when I hit it, I said, throwing my hands in the air as I thought of the most ridiculous secrets he could be hiding. Maybe, just maybe my desperation for an answer would trigger him to speak. You’re too old? Our tiny McMansion isn’t big enough for us and a tiny baby? Your job is too stressful? I am too young and immature to be a mother?

He said nothing. No reaction. His face was stiff and stone cold.

I continued, unwatered by his disinterest, You have a mistress. You don’t love me anymore. You never wanted kids. You have another family somewhere in Texas. You…

The color drained from his face. He swallowed hard. He glanced up to meet my face. His eyes wide. My heart sank. I hadn’t expected any of those to even come remotely close to being true.

You have another family? I whispered, the words barely making a sound.

I…um, I have a… he stammered before blurting out four words that would change everything,I have a daughter.

His shoulders fell as he dropped his gaze. An invisible weight dissipated and floated off of him in a wave of relief. Those four words that’d he’d held in for so long released into the air and hit me square in the heart like a bullet. I gasped and stepped back, away from him. All the air forced from my body in a single heave. A daughter? Not once in our year of dating or five years of marriage had he even hinted those words.

A what? I asked. My voice shaking. My whole body trembled.

He sighed and closed his eyes. I’d seen him do this at least a thousand times. He was turning off. It was almost as if his emotions had a kill switch and he’d just punched it with everything he had.

No, Ben. Don’t retreat. Don’t you dare shut me out now. Not after revealing you already have a daughter.

I grabbed his arm as he tried to leave and pulled him back. His body stiff as I wrapped my arms around him, begging him not to turn away from me. I held on until I felt his muscles relax. Loosening my hold, I waited for him to run.

He didn’t.

I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, Caroline, he finally said. When we met. When you first confessed your desire to have my children. When we got engaged. On our wedding day. I practiced saying the words a hundred times. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bear the thought of you knowing the truth and hating me for it.

I could never hate you, I said. I wanted to reassure him and encourage him to continue, but I barely believed the words myself. I hated him right now. He’d lied to me for six years. Six years.

You would have if you knew.

I hate you for lying, I said, so, maybe telling me the truth can be a step towards me not hating you.

He laughed. I glared at him. I hadn’t meant to be funny; the opposite was my intent. But he always laughed when I was serious. He blamed it on my age. He’d call me a child and then laugh even more. He always did that, and it drove me insane even though I knew it was meant to be a light-hearted joke.

This isn’t funny, I said, gritting my teeth. I’m not being a child or acting my age. You’re a forty-year-old man that can’t even tell the fucking truth because he’s afraid of his wife’s reaction. Who’s the joke here?

I’m sorry, he said, and I could tell he meant it.

Sorry for what? Laughing? Lying?

Both, he admitted. But mostly for lying.

It was my turn not to speak. I let his apology hang in the air for what felt like hours waiting for him to speak.

What do you want to know?

Everything.

I don’t know what to say or where to start. He shrugged. I know this is a shock and I know I should have told you sooner. But you need to know this was long before I met you.

How long ago? How old is she?

Thirteen. He paused. Today.

Her birthday is today?

Yes. I mean, I think so.

You think? How do you not know your daughter’s birthday?

I walked out before she was born.

What? I shook my head, not believing what I was hearing. Ben, my husband, was not the type of man that could walk out on a pregnant woman or a baby. At least, not the Ben I thought I knew. I need you to start from the beginning.

I was engaged, he said. Another bombshell.

Engaged? Jesus, Ben, I cried. This new information stung worse than the first confession. I’d been just twenty-two when I met him, he was practically my first everything. I knew him being almost twelve years older than me meant he’d been around long enough for that not to be true for me. I knew there had been other women. But not one serious enough that he’d fathered her child and almost married her.

He took a deep breath and continued. I met her in 2003, right after I moved to Nashville. We dated casually for a few months, but it got serious pretty quickly. We weren’t trying to get pregnant. Neither of us were ready. She told me she was pregnant in February of 2005. I panicked and proposed. I didn’t want to get married, and I wasn’t convinced she did either, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

I sat down on the plush leather couch in his office. His voice was calm as he shared the story. His breathing returned to normal, and he seemed lighter. I took a deep breath and nodded for him to continue.

I don’t know what happened between that night and the rest of the pregnancy. I went through the motions, pretending to be present. We went to the doctor together. We found out it was a girl and picked out names. She never made wedding plans, and we set up the nursery at her apartment. We didn’t talk about moving in together. It was as if we were just going forward towards something neither of us wanted or were ready for.

He sat down next to me. Taking my hands into his, he whispered my name. Caroline.

I’m processing, I said. I didn’t know what else to say. An hour ago, I’d gotten in my car determined to talk my husband into making a baby. I sipped a decaf iced latte as I drove and daydreamed about a little blonde-haired boy with his blue eyes and my smile. I’d parked my car outside his office and breezed past his secretary, the positive ovulation test burning a hole in my pocket. I’d planned to convince him and seduce him in the middle of a Monday afternoon.

The woman that had made that drive knew her husband. She knew all there was to know about him and she was confident in him. She’d been confident in their marriage. It seemed silly, but in the hour that had passed, I’d lost her too.

I no longer knew my husband. I didn’t have confidence in him or us anymore.

Tell me the rest, I said, defeated. I wasn’t sure I could handle the rest of the story or the ending.

I was at work when she went into labor, he said, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. The shame he felt seeping into the words as he spoke them. I was working at a bar. She waited tables there and was supposed to come in for the night shift. I wasn’t expecting the call; the baby wasn’t due for another four or so weeks. I left work and drove to the hospital. The nurses rushed me in. I walked in and saw her sitting in the bed, laughing and talking with the doctor. She seemed so calm, so ready.

I watched him as he told the story. His eyes distant and his voice growing weaker by the word. I knew the ending that was coming, but I still couldn’t believe he could do what he was about to tell me.

I ran, he said, finishing, I saw her and the rest of my life in that room and I didn’t want it. I wasn’t ready to be a father. I wasn’t ready to be a husband. I left her there, alone.

You left her while she was in labor? I tried to hide my shock and disgust, my failed. How could he? How could the man I thought I knew do something so horrific and never once mention it or even act as if it never happened?

Yes, he said, I don’t regret leaving, but I regret how I left. I sent money, and I paid the hospital bill. She eventually told me to stop. I think she may have met someone new. One day a year later, she called and asked me to give up my legal parental rights and I agreed. I think she was relieved to not be stuck with me. By then, I was working with Tucker and his lawyers handled everything, so I didn’t have to.

Just like that? He made it sound so easy. So simple. As if he’d merely washed his hands, patted them dry and moved on without a second thought or care.

Just like that, he repeated.

So, all those times you told me you wanted to have a family, you hid this and lied?

I didn’t lie about wanting a family with you, he insisted, I do want a family, but every time I think about it, I think of her and that little girl. I hurt them. I never meant to, but I did. What if I do that to you? What if I panic again? Then what? I have two kids to abandon and disappoint? Two mothers left to pick up the pieces I can’t handle?

That was thirteen years ago, Ben, I said, I’d like to think you are a different man now. I know you are.

He had to be. I could not live with the thought that I’d married a man capable of running out on the woman about to give birth to his child.

Two

Reese

The tile was cold under my legs. An early September cold front had moved in and my shorts and tank top left more skin exposed than I was comfortable with. But it was two in the morning and I was too tired to get up and pull the robe off the hook on the bathroom door. The cold floor provided me with a distraction. I tried to focus on my discomfort rather than the clock but failed.

I checked the time on my phone. 2:01 a.m. In less than three hours, my first (and only) born will be thirteen years old. In less than two minutes, I should find out if another will join her. Staring at the test on the floor beside me, I willed the word Pregnant to appear.

I pulled my knees up to my chest in an attempt to find some warmth. My head drooped forward from exhaustion and I rested it in my palms. Thirty-eight years old and I felt like a teenager the month after prom, nervously waiting for a result I wasn’t sure I wanted to see. It was routine by now, the middle of every month, waking up before 2:00 a.m. five mornings in a row to pee on a stick. A stick that held far more power than anything else in my life. A stick I bought in bulk from Costco every other month. I hated those stupid fucking sticks.

My phone buzzed as the three-minute timer went off. I opened my eyes and picked up the test.

Pregnant. The screen glowed bright in the dark bathroom. It punched me in the gut.

For a brief moment, I allowed a silent celebration. I wasn’t entirely surprised. My breasts were more tender than normal and my typical period cramps were duller than normal. I wasn’t due to start until tomorrow, but I’d had a feeling. An intuition I was becoming all too familiar with. Getting pregnant wasn’t my problem. Staying pregnant was. Or, rather, actually being pregnant. My doctor called these chemical pregnancies. Meaning, pregnancies that ended before they really began. That is where I failed. Over and over again. This was my third positive test this year. Lucky number three? I laughed at my own ridiculous optimism. Ten miscarriages in five years should have taught me to take the result at face value. A positive meant nothing. HcG levels were what mattered. The higher the better and they better double every two to three days. I was well versed in HcG and the various stages of a miscarriage and chemical pregnancies. 

I hated the cynicism that had taken over this process. I hated that it was a process. As I thought about the potential life that might be growing, I wanted desperately to see a life. To feel that expectant mother excitement and optimism. I wanted to be happy and relieved to see the positive result.

I wanted to fantasize about who this little ball of cells would grow to be. He or she? Blonde like Greg or brunette like me? My brown eyes or his blue eyes? Would she look up to her big sister and chase her around the yard? Would he follow his daddy around begging for him to lift him in the air as he’d done with Lily when she was young? I wanted to imagine Greg with his baby in his arms. To give him a second chance at fatherhood. A first chance, really.

But my reality wouldn’t allow it. I had to protect my heart. It had broken too many times. The devastation from a life lost because my body couldn’t grow or protect it was too great. A million tiny fractured pieces remained, they reminded me of my failures constantly. As a woman, my body had one job; to grow and sustain life.

And I failed. I failed repeatedly.

A light tapping on the door shook me back to reality.

Reese? he asked as the door creaked open.

I quickly dropped the test in the trash. No use getting his hopes up. As the plastic test clanged into the can, I felt what little hope I had sink along with it.

Hey, babe. I yawned. Standing to greet him, I gave him a light kiss on the cheek.

Test time already? he asked.

He knew this routine almost as well as I did. At first, he’d sat with me while we waited. He would set the alarm on his phone for five minutes before mine and have the test out and ready for me. Now, the sound of my tears or the toilet flushing would wake him.

Every month, I said with only a little sarcasm. Of course, it was test time, it was always test time.

And? he asked as he lifted the toilet seat.

Nothing. I lied. I hated lying. I wanted to be as excited as I was the first time I ran into the room and jumped on the bed. I’d shaken him awake and screamed so loud it had woken Lily on the other side of the house. We laughed and cried and sent her back to bed, so we could celebrate.

Five years later, I was watching him pee and ignoring the positive test I’d just thrown in the trash. We both went back to bed, our backs towards each other. Before long, he was snoring softly. I stared at the clock, waiting for the alarm to go off, never falling back asleep. When morning came, I was ready to accept the inevitable. Whatever fate decided that should be.

MOM! Lily shouted over the coffee grinder.

I held up my finger, asking for another moment. When the machine stopped, I inhaled deeply allowing the aroma of freshly ground beans to sink deep into my soul. Coffee was the nectar of moms who slept too little. Even if it was decaf. I savored the tiny amount of caffeine that lived in that one cup I allowed myself.

Lily rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. She was fully embracing her first day as a teenager.

Yes, my dear, sweet birthday princess, what wish can I grant for you this morning? I asked and laughed. Ever since rising at five am, she’d been making demand after demand for her birthday.

Now that I am thirteen, she said for the fiftieth time this morning. Can we finally go to Sephora? I have everything on my wish list. Foundation, mascara, lip gloss.

Her voice trailed off, but her enthusiasm was contagious. I smiled.

Three years ago, on her tenth birthday, her Aunt Rebecca had gifted her with a makeup kit. Greg and I both agreed that she was too young for makeup. In an effort to soften the blow of the lost present, I’d promised her that on her thirteenth birthday, she could go on a makeup shopping spree.

Saturday, I promised, we’ll make a day of it. I’m sure you’ve already scheduled a makeover and consultation?

She smiled shyly, and her cheeks flushed. Yes. At ten. Right when they open.

I laughed and tousled her hair.

Did Dad already leave? she asked.

Yeah, he had an early morning meeting. We are both heading out early tonight, so we can celebrate properly.

She sulked and swirled her spoon in her cereal bowl.

So, she said, what if we stop at Starbucks on the way in?

Coffee, Starbucks specifically, was another illusive item I’d promised her when she turned thirteen. Lily was a steel trap. Her young mind remembered every seemingly insignificant promise I’d made in moments of desperation. I knew there was no way to avoid this one. Or any of the million things I’d promised over the years.

Fine, I said, conceding. But we need to leave in the next five minutes or we are both going to be late.

She glanced at her watch and ran her hand through her tangled hair. Messy buns are in, right?

For soccer moms that wear yoga pants and obsess over pumpkin spice lattes while shopping at Target. I laughed.

Oh! I can finally get a PSL! She squealed. Messy bun, leggings, Uggs and a comfy sweater dress! I am going all in on the basic today!

I rolled my eyes and ushered her upstairs. In the rush of the morning it was easy to forget how much she’d grown and just how mature she’d become. Lily may be a freshly minted teenager at the ripe old age of thirteen, but she was one of the smartest kids in her class. Hell, there were days I was convinced she was smarter than me. She likely got that from him. Her quick wit was another trait that came from her paternal DNA. She got her clumsiness, round cheeks and button nose from me. Her blue eyes, sharp jawline and dirty blonde hair were all him. Sometimes it was hard not to see him when I looked at her, but I always forced the faded images of him from my mind. She didn’t deserve to have the memory of him taint her life. She knew about him, but I’d never shown her his picture or shared his name.

She knew Greg wasn’t her biological father, but her chosen dad. I’d always tried to reinforce that Greg had chosen us, he’d actively wanted to be her father. He loved her as much as he loved me. Often, I’d wondered if being an instant father was what made me so attractive to him. Greg is a natural caregiver. And although Lily wasn’t his by birth, he’d given her every bit of love and attention that any father would give his daughter. He’s doted on her since the moment he came into our lives.

Sighing, I pulled my hair into my own messy bun, a necessity of my job rather than a fashion statement. I’d already slapped on the least amount of makeup I could get away with and was wearing jeans with a pullover emblazoned with my bakery’s logo. My brown slip-resistant shoes were functional rather than cute, much like my hairdo.

Ready? I called up the stairs. If you want your basic white girl PSL, we need to leave NOW!

Her feet