My Wife's Li'l Secret

Authors: Eve Rabi

MY WIFE’S LI’L SECRET

By Eve Rabi

~~~

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, and media used in this book are fictitious and are the product of the author's imagination. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication use of this trademark is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Wahroonga

Sydney Australia

I sat at the edge of my chair in the doctor’s room, holding Liefie’s hand while the obstetrician scanned his wand across her swollen stomach, the sound of our unborn baby’s heart-beat reverberating around the room.

My wife squeezed my hand and I felt her anxiety – in a couple of minutes the sex of our baby would be revealed. Our third child. We were the kind of couple who wanted to know, not content with furnishing the nursery yellow and white.

“What do you want?” the doctor asked, pausing and looking at me.

“Well, I adore my two daughters, don’t
really
mind having another girl, but…I want a boy,” I intoned. “Like most men do.”

He nodded and looked at Liefie, his eyebrows raised.

“We agreed that if it’s a boy, we’ll stop with the baby-making,” she explained. “But if it isn’t, we’ll continue until Ritchie has his son. We made a deal a long time ago and …” She looked at me for confirmation.

I didn’t answer. I wanted five kids. Four at least.

She nudged me. “Ritchie?”

“True,” I said, under duress.

“We just want the baby to be healthy,” Liefie and I rounded simultaneously. We meant it.

With a nod the doctor turned his attention to the screen. “As far as I can …see,” he cocked his head and squinted at the image, “that’s either a third leg, or a massive …”

Liefie’s head jerked to look at me, her eyes filled with anticipation.

With my eyes fixed on the doctor’s face, I lifted her clammy hand to my lips and held it there.

After some more squinting, the doctor finally delivered the good news. “It’s a boy. For sure!”

Liefie screamed with delight while I grinned.

“Wonderful! Fantastic!” I said. “Just…wonderful!” I bent to kiss her lips.

“Thank God!” Liefie said, accepting my kiss. “Now we can stop.”

“Now we can stop,” I echoed as we rubbed noses, then hugged.

I looked up at the doctor. “Thank you, doc!”

“Hey, you did all the work here, Mr. MacMillan,” he said, putting away his wand and clearing up around us. “Me, I’m just the messenger. The stork.”

Liefie and I laughed.

“But it’s great to see a couple like you so in love after …how many years?”

“Seven!” Liefie said.

The doctor’s head bobbed. “Three kids in seven years?! And you’re
still
in love.

That’s something.”

Liefie looked a trifle embarrassed. “We both want a big family.”

“Not to mention that she likes sex,” I added.

Liefie turned red and tapped me with the back of her hand in the ribs. “Ritchie!”

The doctor laughed.

“She badgers me all the time!” I continued, fending off Liefie’s taps. “Gets me up in the middle of the –”

“Ritchie!” Liefie said through clenched teeth. “Stop!”

“Don’t be fooled by the red face and shy smile, doc,” I said. “She’s – ”

“Ritchie!” Liefie hissed.

“It’s good to see couples like you,” the doctor said, chuckling away. “Encouraging.” He moved to wipe away the gel on her belly.

“Here, let me do that,” I said, taking the Kleenex from him.

He thanked me and left the room to fetch Liefie’s file.

After wiping my wife’s belly, I gently kissed it. “My son is in here,” I whispered.

Liefie smiled. “Talk to him. Say something to him.”

I squinted at her belly. “Mm.” Then I leaned in and whispered. “Hello, little Focker! Heard you have a massive pe –”

“No!” Liefie said, smacking me on the head.

I jerked back. “What?”

“Say something
nice
, Ritchie. C’mon!”

“Okay, okay.” I thought for a moment then cleared my throat. “Son, I’m your dad and I can’t wait to meet you. Your mum, she’s great; and your sisters, they’re just awesome and they're waiting for you too, probably to boss you around more than anything else.”

Liefie laughed.

“But you’re gonna love it out here son. You and me, we’re gonna play
Grand Theft Auto
, watch
Simpsons
and eat M&Ms while watching
South Park
and
Sopranos
and –”

“No!” Liefie said laughing. “Don’t you dare watch those with our baby!”

I grinned and moved my face up to hers. For a few moments, my wife and I locked eyes, and in her cornflower-blues I saw what I felt for her—absolute adoration and undying love.

I moved my face to kiss her fingers.

“I love you, Ritchie,” she whispered, smoothing down my hair.

“I love you,” I said, sliding my arms under her and pulling her up to me. “Forever.”

The doctor returned, so we quickly pulled apart.

As the doctor wrote on her chart, I helped her change into her dress and slipped her shoes onto her swollen feet.

“Hey, I wanna phone my sister!” I said, straightening up and taking out my phone.

“Yes, call her,” Liefie said. “Arena will be thrilled for us.”

“Eh, in a minute,” the doctor said, pointing to the assorted machines in the room. “Mobile phones tend to mess with …”

“Oh, okay, sure. I’ll wait.”

That same afternoon, hand-in-hand, we strode into a home décor store and purchased wallpaper, paint, a rug, a rocking chair, and various other items to decorate our son’s nursery. Even though I was too busy at work to decorate the nursery myself, I was involved in just about every aspect of the decorating.

Most evenings when our two daughters were asleep, Liefie and I would hang around the nursery. She’d sit in the rocking chair with a cup of cocoa while I slumped against the wall, whisky in my hand.

“I hope he’s tall like you,” she said.

“Mm. Bet his peepers are going to be blue like yours,” I said, smiling at my Ukrainian-born wife with half-mast eyes. “So sexy. I love 'em.”

She blew me a kiss.

My wife’s real name was Olga, but I called her Liefie, which meant
little treasure
in Afrikaans, the native language from where I grew up in South Africa.

“What does it mean?” she asked when I first called her that.

When I explained what it meant, she broke into a broad smile. “I love it, Ritchie!” she gushed. “I can’t stand the name Olga. So I want you to always call me Liefie, okay?”

“Okay…Liefie,” I said, smiling at the delightful creature in my arms.

“In fact, from now on, I want to be known as Liefie to
everyone
around! New life, new name. One day I’m going to change it officially.”

“Sure, Liefie,” I said, taking her hand and twirling her around.

From then on, everybody called her Liefie.

“His hair might be brown like yours,” she said.

“Or dark like your brother’s,” I pointed out. “Oh, well, I don’t give a crap, I just wanna see my son.”

“Little Gareth,” she mused, stroking her belly. “Nice name.”

“Yeah…” My smile died.

Seeing the dip in my ebullient mood, she rose from her rocking chair, grabbed a cushion, and walked over to me. She stuck the cushion behind my back, then sank into my lap and nestled into me. She smiled sweetly at me, closed her eyes and whispered, “Get corny with me. Hit me with your best shot.”

With a nod, I kissed her upturned nose and said, “You’re my li’l treasure. My everything. Without you, I’m half a man. Your turn,” I said. “Go on, you can do it!”

She opened her eyes and looked at me. “You’re the miracle in my life,” she whispered. “Before I met you, I didn’t believe there was a God.”

I jerked back. “Whoa! That’s real corny. I love it! You win.”

We both laughed at our silliness.

With my arms around her, I gently rocked her as I contemplated my life. A loving, supportive wife, 2.5 adorable children, a comfortable home, and a thriving business. That was success to me. I had achieved what people the world over strived to every day. My soul was totally at ease.

Liefie yawned in my arms.

“Wanna hit the sack?” I asked, nuzzling her neck.

She nodded. “Carry me.”

I got up, scooped her in my arms, and carried her up to our bedroom.

Chapter Two

When Liefie was five months pregnant, I received a phone call at work that shook me.

“I’m calling from Allenby Hospital’s Emergency Department.”

That sentence alone made me feel like I had swallowed sand.

“Mr. MacMillan, I’m sorry to inform you that your wife was involved in a small accident and –”

“What!” A bolt of fear shot through me.

“She’s okay, so calm down. Just some bruises and minor injur –”

“An accident?” Dread washed over me. “The …baby? How’s the baby?”

“She’s having a scan at the moment, so we’ll know soon, but the baby’s heartbeat is just fine."

“I’ll be there ASAP!” I said, grabbing my jacket and the keys to my Jeep.

To get to my wife, I broke every speed limit there was, shot through several red traffic lights, copped a heap of abuse from other drivers for pulling some risky stunts, and screeched into the hospital parking lot in less than fifteen minutes.

When I saw my wife, I was mortified. Her left eye was closed, her lip was split, and there were bruises all over her face, neck and arms. Almost like she’d been in a boxing match. And lost.

With such injuries, how could the baby be okay?

“Liefie, honey, what happened?” I tried to hold her, but when she winced in pain, I quickly released her.

She shook her head as tears coursed down her cheeks. “Ritchie, I don’t know. I …I dropped the kids off at school, then went for a walk. I was crossing the road …I got hit by a …bicycle, or a motor bike, I don’t know – it happened so quickly and the person, he didn’t stop and nobody was around…and …and my cell phone, it was dead. I managed to get home and I called an ambulance.”

A hit-and-run on a pregnant woman – what a dirty coward. My blood boiled. “We’ll find the prick,” I vowed through clenched teeth. “Don’t you worry. We’ll find him.”

“Good news!” a doctor said breezing into the room. “Baby’s fine!”

“Thank God!” Liefie said. I nodded.

Following the doctor were two cops. “Mr. MacMillan, can we please speak in private?”

“Sure,” I said and turned to Liefie. “Back in a few minutes, honey.” After a quick kiss on the forehead, I followed the cops out of the room into the hospital corridor.

“Any news on the hit-and-run?” I asked the two cops in front of me.

“Here’s our take on it; we don’t think there was a hit-and-run,” the carrot top said. He had a reddish-brown beard, bloodshot green eyes and a snarl.

I swung my body to face him. “Oh. Okay, what then?”

“Her injuries…” he shook his index finger at me, “They look more like an assault. Our records show she had similar injuries a few years ago. So we have to ask: did you assault your wife?”

“What? No!” I said to the straight-shooter. “I absolutely did not! The last time she fell off a ladder while trying to change a light…” I sighed. “Ask her!”

I didn’t get angry at the accusation. Being a former member of SWAT in South Africa before I migrated to Australia, I understood; they were just doing their job.

The second cop, a six-foot-something female with cropped blonde hair and a smattering of freckles said, “Maybe an argument got out of hand and …”

“I didn’t do this,” I said in a firm voice, looking Good Cop in the eye. “I didn’t assault my wife. Ask her. I’ve never laid a hand on my wife before. Never! Ask her.”

I thought about rounding it up with,
I love my wife
, but I didn’t.

Judging by their passive-aggressive physical stance (arms folded tightly across their chests, feet apart, narrow eyes boring into me as I spoke) I knew they didn’t believe me. I didn’t give a crap – I was more concerned about getting back to Liefie.

Two hours later, two detectives arrived and asked me to accompany them to our local police station. I went without fuss, having zilch to hide.

There they grilled me for almost an hour. They interrogated me, then left me alone in the interview room to sweat while they obviously watched me through the big window in the room. They returned and questioned me again, this time appearing more receptive to my answers. Or pretending to.

“I was at work all morning,” I explained. “Left ’bout 7:30 this morning. Bear, my partner and brother-in-law, he can vouch for me. We run a security surveillance business together.”

They visited Bear at work and questioned him, then they spoke to Liefie at the hospital, and after she repeatedly confirmed that I did not assault her, they let me go. It was clear, however, that they believed that Liefie was covering up for me.

Liefie’s minor injuries healed over time, but she wasn't quite the same person. I noticed she started to become withdrawn and didn’t leave the house much after that.

I almost choked with fury each time I thought of my wife’s bruises. What motherfucker could be so callous as to leave a pregnant woman lying injured in the street? I asked myself.

What if she had died out there?

“I’m going to hire a private investigator to find this arsehole and …”

“I’m okay,” Liefie said, putting her hand on my arm in a calming gesture. “Just let it be, so we can move on, Ritchie. Please! I really want us to spend our days
enjoying
this baby rather than chasing after thugs. What happened, happened. But we’re okay, so just let it go. Please baby?” She placed her palms on the sides of my face as she pleaded with me.

“But honey, I can put security cameras on the exterior of a couple houses in the street and sooner or later …”

“Talk of that unpleasant ordeal really stresses me out, Ritchie. Please, let it go. Please!”

When she put it that way, what could I say?

"O…kay,” I eventually muttered.

I may have let it ride, but every cyclist after that, regardless of their age, every biker (even the ones out of our residential area) copped glares and snarls from me.

Was it you who hurt my Liefie, motherfucker? Huh? Huh?

You got something to say? Huh?!

****

A month later, Liefie called me while I was at a client’s in a state of panic. “Ritchie?”

“Hey, babe, wassup?”

“Ritchie…Ritchie…”

“Liefie, what’s wrong?”

“My brother Viggo, he’s had a heart attack and he’s in hospital.”

“Really? He’s so young. You serious?”

“Yes! Yes!”

“I’m sorry to hear that, baby.”

“I have to go to Ukraine, Ritchie. I have to leave right away!”

“Okay, book our flight and – ”

“No, I can’t wait. I have to leave now.
Today
! There’s a flight in three hours. I can make it. Arena’s helping me pack as we speak. I want to take that flight, Ritchie. Please!”

“But …but …honey, you’re pregnant? Even if my sister is helping you, how are you going to manage …?”

“I’ll manage, I’ll manage. I’m taking the girls too.”

“The girls? Why?”

“They will be better off with me. If they are around, at least I don’t have to stress about them.”

“Liefie, you’re gonna travel with a four-year-old and a two-year-old on your own on a –?”

“It’ll be okay. It’s an evening flight. They’ll fall asleep after dinner. Don’t worry. And you can work without having to rush home to them.”

“Fine,” I said, having no choice.

When I arrived home that night, the house was empty.

Hating to go home to an empty house, I pulled long hours at work catching up with a backlog, played squash with my squash buddies, and hung out a lot with my sister and brother-in-law.

A couple days later, to my relief, Liefie informed me her brother was going to be okay.

“Great!” I said. “When are you coming back?” I hated being parted from my family. I missed them so much, and I didn’t want to go home if Liefie wasn’t there.

“I wanna stay a little longer, Ritchie,” Liefie said. “Don’t know when I will come back. I really want to be with Viggo a little longer. Please.”

“Okay,” I said in a sulky voice.

“Thanks honey.”

“Just take care, okay? And leave before you are seven months. You won't be able to fly if you – ”

“I will, I will!”

“Good.”

“Eh, Ritchie?”

“Yes, babe?”

“Hit me with some corny. Please?”

“Okay.” I thought for a moment. “Mm…at night…”

“Yes…?”

“…I keep reaching out for you and when I realize you’re not there, I awake and find it hard to go to sleep again. I literally count the days till you’re back in my arms. Seriously.”

She went quiet, but I heard her sniff.

“Hey, it’s your turn,” I said. “Hit me. Hard. I really need it, babe.”

“I know what love is.”

“Huh?”

“That’s a title to a s…song by Celine Dion. I want you to listen to it, Ritchie.
Really
listen ’cause it’s how I’m feeling right now.”

“Celine Dion, huh?”

“I know you’re not a fan of Celine, but please, for me, Ritchie?”

“Ok fine. For you I will listen to Celine Dion. But only if you cheer up, hon.”

“I will,” she said in a soft voice.

“I love you, baby,” I said. “And tell my girls I love them heaps.”

“Okay, will do. Eh, Ritchie?”

“Yes, baby.”