All our lives can go back to normal.
That’s not true, Jenny. It could be about to get a lot worse. The district attorney wants to convict your husband of murder.
I lunge for the glass on the coffee table and refill it, this time not even bothering with the tonic. I sip and sip, knowing I shouldn’t be drinking alone right now, not with this stone in my stomach and Corey’s email on my phone. But I’m not stopping. I sip until I can no longer picture the look on Jen’s face when her husband and the father of her child is handcuffed and taken away to prison. I keep sipping until I’m tipsy enough to let myself do the thing I most want to do, the thing I’ll later blame on the booze. I open my email and start to type.
Chapter Twelve JEN
Someone forgot to tell the manager at Target that it’s time to change the music. Mariah Carey should not be telling you what she wants for Christmas two weeks into January. And yet here she is, belting it out of the too-loud speakers.
I had to get out this morning. I was like a feverish prisoner ready to make a break for it. If you asked me when I left the house before today, I couldn’t tell you. I could tell you the last time I almost left. Last Thursday. I was supposed to meet Riley for a coffee. I was looking forward to it so bad. I was all dressed up, even blew out my hair, put on some lip gloss; then she canceled on me an hour before. Something came up at work. It was just an excuse. I wrote back, No problem. Even adding an emoji. And then I decided that I was officially done. I wasn’t going to try again. The ball was in her court, and I wasn’t holding my breath.
I was desperate for a change of scenery, and Target seemed as good a destination as any, especially since I have a $100 gift card, a Christmas present from Annie and Matt, burning a hole in my pocket. Since I’m not having a shower, I need to buy all the baby gear on my own, see how far I can stretch this $100, because I can’t spend anything else.
A row of shiny wooden cribs announces the baby section. Frank’s been spending a lot of time in his workroom in the garage, building “a surprise” for the baby that I suspect is probably a crib. Considering the prices I’m seeing here, a free crib sounds amazing to me, and it’s given Frank something to do these last few weeks, an escape from Cookie and the broken son he has no idea how to fix.
I waddle slowly up and down the next aisle, leaning heavily on the cart handle. A baby swing catches my eye, and I lean over to the bottom shelf to look at the price. When I straighten, there’s a familiar and distinct wetness between my legs. I probably peed myself again. It happens lately every time I sneeze, cough, or bend over. Just another one of those totally normal and gross symptoms of pregnancy that no one ever tells you about. I’ve started wearing these gigantic pads all the time, the same kind the kids in middle school used to leave on our seventh-grade teacher Mrs. Dobber’s chair, sticky side up.
It feels more wet than usual this time though. It’s gonna soak through my only pair of maternity jeans. My body is embarrassing enough without having to walk through Target with a dark splotch across my ass. I need a mirror to see how bad it looks.
Suddenly a searing pain rips through my midsection. I make it two more steps and there’s another sharp stab, a hot blade slicing through me. I can’t even catch my breath before there’s another and another until I can’t take it anymore. I collapse on the ground.
Worse even than the pain is the sudden and paralyzing certainty that something is wrong.
“Help me. Somebody help… me.” I finally get out the words. The effort leaves me spent.
A pimply-faced teenager wearing a red polo shirt two sizes too big for him approaches but does nothing except stand there looking at me, useless. Finally a woman pushing a cart with three girls under the age of six shoves the store employee out of the way and places her hand on my back.
“Breathe, honey. Just breathe. It’s gonna be okay.”
“No, no, no. It’s too soon.”
The look on the woman’s face says it all. She’s had kids, those three little girls watching me now, silent and scared.
“Did your water break?”
“I don’t know.” The wet spot around my crotch is spreading, seeping down my thighs. The doctors and the websites all say it’s unlikely that your water will break. It only happens 20 percent of the time. It’s the smell that lets you know. But what’s it supposed to smell like? All I can smell is my own fear, sour and metallic.
“Give me your phone. I’ll call your husband.”
“In my bag?”
The woman digs around in my purse, rooting through the loose change, crumpled receipts, the bruised banana I keep meaning to throw away, dirty tissues, the spare tampon that long ago lost its wrapper. As she continues to search the multiple pockets, I have a crystal-clear image of my phone sitting in the center console of the car.
The woman squats down, her kind eyes level to mine. “I can’t find it. We can use mine. What’s the number?”
I only knew three numbers by heart. Lou’s home number, which is the same number I had growing up; Riley’s cell, which has miraculously stayed the same all these years; and Kevin’s cell, which I only know because he made me memorize it. Part of his training was making the family memorize important numbers. I squeak out Kevin’s number and watch the woman punch it into her own phone.
“It went to voice mail.”
Of course it did. He’s not going to answer some random number and listen to someone scream at him again.
“Who else can I call?”
Before I can answer, a chain saw slices right through my stomach, cutting me in half. I roll over, an inhuman sound coming out of my mouth. I start bargaining with God, thinking of all the things I’ll trade for Chase to be okay. It’s a short-lived exercise, because the answer is everything, anything.
“Call 911!” the woman commands the pimply teenager, and he seems happy to be told what to do.
I think I’m nodding, though maybe my head isn’t even moving. I’m squeezing my eyes shut against the agony. I sense the small crowd forming around us, staring at me with concern and pity, and a dash of excitement too, at being front row for an emergency, a story to tell later.
“Try my husband again,” I manage.
The woman dutifully complies. “Still no answer, hon.”
I could give her Riley’s cell: 215-555-4810… 215-555-4810. I’ve dialed it more than I’ve dialed Kevin’s number, more than my own home phone. I’ve called it from pay phones and random guys’ cell phones to let her know when our favorite song came on in some bar during a boring date. But no. I can’t call Riley. Why? In the haze of pain it’s hard to think straight. I’m done. But done with what? Done with Riley? I wasn’t gonna call her again. Ever. The hard line had felt good, a sense of righteous satisfaction. Now that reasoning doesn’t make sense. Riley’s my best friend? The thought forms itself into a question.
“Anyone else, honey?” The woman asks, a frantic pitch to her voice. One of her little girls whimpers.
“My best friend… Call Riley,” I manage. From a distance, over the sound of my own labored panting, I can faintly hear Riley say hello to Judy through the phone. I’m not sure how I know the woman’s name is Judy. She must have told me.