She started the car, stomped on the gas.
She had no idea what to do, where to go. She’d fallen for his lies again. Again. Melissa must have gotten pregnant soon after Rye’s return. With Frankie, he’d used condoms. Always. Never a mistake.
All these months, while he’d been sleeping with Frankie, his wife had been pregnant. When he’d proposed, Melissa had been nearing term. He’d dropped to a knee, said, “Marry me,” and Frankie had believed him. She’d believed every smile, every touch, every promise. Believed blindly, believed when he said, Soon, baby. Soon we will tell everyone we’re together.
Oh my God.
The only person she hated more than Rye was herself.
* * *
She needed a drink.
It was all she could think of. She couldn’t go home, to the bungalow where he had clothes in the closet, where he’d dropped to one knee and proposed marriage.
She drove past the bar frequented by the hospital staff and drove to San Diego’s Gaslamp Quarter and found a parking spot on the street in front of a tavern where she would be anonymous. She went inside, found it already half-full of patrons who looked like regulars.
She slipped up onto a barstool. “Gin on the rocks,” she said. “And a pack of Virginia Slims.”
When the bartender returned with her drink, she barely looked at him. Her hand was trembling as she reached for the glass.
It’s a boy! crashed through her like a wrecking ball, destroying every fragile block of herself she’d tried to rebuild.
“I deserve this,” she said.
“Huh?” the bartender said.
“Nothing. Another drink, please.”
She took the second drink and downed it, then ordered a third. When a good-looking man sat beside her, said, “Hey, foxy lady,” she snagged her purse and headed out again. In the car, she cranked up the music on “I Am Woman.”
She drove out of the crowded quarter.
She should slow down; she was going too fast.
She sang along with the song, realized she was crying. Ahead was the bridge. She hit the gas, rocketed forward; a stanchion of concrete in front of her, a wall of gray to her right, and then nothing but water. She turned the wheel, just a fraction of an inch.
A man on a bicycle came out of nowhere. She slammed on the brakes, felt the car spiral out of control on the road, saw handlebars in her headlights. She yanked on the wheel, tried to turn the other way.
Too late.
Thirty-Two
Frankie woke in a hospital bed. Her entire body hurt, especially her left arm, and a headache pounded behind her eyes. For a split second she couldn’t remember why she was here, and then …
The man on the bicycle. The bridge.
“Oh God.”
She heard voices and footsteps coming down the hallway.
Her father walked into the room, looking grim and ashamed. Angry. Next to him was a policeman with short gray hair; the brass buttons on his khaki uniform strained over a big gut and a thin dark tie tried to hide the gaps that showed his undershirt.
“Did I kill him?” Frankie asked, unable to raise her voice above a whisper.
“No,” the officer said. “But you came close. Kicked the shit out of his bicycle. Came close to killing yourself, too.”
“You were drunk, Frankie,” her father said. “You could have died.” His voice breaking, he added, “Can you imagine me having to tell your mother that? Another lost child?”
Frankie’s throat felt so tight she could barely swallow. She wished she had died. And then a terrible, terrible thought: Had she wanted to? Had she turned into the bridge wall, instead of away?
Dad looked at the policeman. “Can I take her home, Phil?”
The policeman nodded. “Yes. She’s being charged with DUI. You’ll be notified about her arraignment.”
Frankie swung her feet to the side of the bed, slowly stood; she felt dizzy. Dad moved in close, steadied her as she limped out of the hospital, past her fellow nurses, who stared at her as she passed. They must have known what she’d done, that she’d almost killed a man. “The man I almost hit … you sure he’s okay? You’re not lying to me?”
“He’s fine, Frankie. Bill Brightman. Coronado High principal.”
Outside, the silver Mercedes gull-wing waited. Frankie refused her father’s help and made her own way into the passenger seat.
Dad put the key in the ignition and started the car. It roared to life but didn’t move.
After a long silence, he turned to her. “Do you want to die, Frankie? Your mother asked me that.”