Shame: A Stepbrother Romance (16 page)

It’s even colder than yesterday. The snow keeps falling and the sky looks orange. The wind is whistling past my red ears, so I pull up the hood of the old down jacket I’m wearing instead of my coat (which I left at Ashleigh’s) and try to disappear inside it. It’s so cold that everyone who passes by seems to be in a great hurry, staring at their feet and pulling up their scarves to cover their freezing noses.

I finally reach the large chain drugstore and literally feel myself defrost the minute I walk in. The bright fluorescent lights are hard on my eyes and I squint behind my glasses. At least I was wearing contacts at the wedding, so my
portrait
in the paper doesn’t make it necessary for me to throw away the glasses.

I don’t come here often and it takes me a while to find my direction towards the hair dye section. Since I’m looking at my feet to avoid any eye contact with the other customers looking at the shelves, I soon find myself in a deserted aisle that has nothing to do with hair products.

It’s the feminine care aisle.

I’ve been pushing the thought to the back of my mind all day today. It just isn’t possible. Now that I’m here, I’m starting to wonder if I didn’t concoct the whole hair dye plan just to get here in the first place and pretend it was an accident. My mind has been working so irrationally these past couple of days that I wouldn’t be surprised. In my current state, I doubt
anything
could surprise me. Or make things even worse.

Except for one thing.

I’m standing in front of the pregnancy test shelf and though technically I shouldn’t be trembling for I have religiously been taking my birth control pills ever since we started sleeping together, I am actually trembling. I look at the pregnancy test boxes, all pink, purple and positive-looking, shiny and decorated with butterflies and flowers like the only news they could be delivering are good ones.

I know I can’t be pregnant and yet the suspicion is harping on at my subconscious all day. I know little about early pregnancy symptoms, but that much I know. I’ve practically spent the entire day bent over the toilet or else walking around nauseous and though what’s happened to me is nauseating enough, I still couldn’t help but wonder.

Just to be safe, I grab two different brands and walk towards the counter. I’m glad I have some cash on me to pay for them as I didn’t find the strength to even look at my financial situation today. I have completely forgotten about the hair dye and maybe that’s smart, because I don’t know if I can afford both right now. Also dying my hair could wait until I find out for sure. And if I’m pregnant anyway, there would be far darker things to decide and deal with than the color of my hair.

I can’t get home fast enough and when I’m finally inside, I realize just how physically weak I’ve become. I need to order food, but first, even if I die of dehydration first, I need to find out what the pregnancy tests say. I skim through the instructions and diligently pee on each one, then line them up on the bathroom floor and wait, kitchen timer in hand.

Any woman who’s done a pregnancy test must know that the five minutes you need to wait for the results are the most excruciating ones and time stretches mercilessly as if the laws of physics no longer apply. Any woman would also know that what you end up doing while you’re waiting is imagine how your life would change in case the test is positive.

That’s what I do and I don’t like the image one bit.

I picture myself staring into the crib where my baby is sleeping quietly. It’s cold and almost dark as I can afford neither heat, nor electricity, but the baby’s face glows in the candlelight like an angel’s. Only my child is as far from an angel as it seems possible.

A blast of wind rattles the loose glass in the window frame of my cheap studio and the baby stirs. He opens his eyes and looks at me. His face is suddenly not a baby’s face, but a miniature version of Andrew’s adult features. I stand back horrified and run as far as I can in the cramped tiny apartment, so I don’t hear the baby’s wails through the closed doors.

A loud beep shakes me back to reality.

It’s the kitchen timer, letting me know it’s time.

My heart is about to pop out of my chest as I push the small plastic slider away from the tiny window that displays the result.

The first line is bright and red and can poke my eye out. The second one is thinner, fainter, almost translucent, but it’s pale pink and it’s there. I almost feel like I’ve hallucinated it, because I’m so stressed out, but a quick look at the second test tells me I haven’t.

I, as I’ve known myself my entire life, am over. As of this second, I am a mother.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I don’t even have time to begin processing the enormity of the situation, when loud banging on my front door brings me out of my stupor. I drop the two pregnancy tests on the floor and listen. What the hell? Who could it be? I doubt Ashleigh has walked all the way over here and even if she has, she doesn’t have the strength to knock so heavily.

It’s quiet, so I figure whoever it was is now gone and I’m just about to pick up the tests again and continue staring at them mindlessly, when even louder thumping breaks the silence. I don’t know why, but I decide it’s most definitely a burglar or some psychopath from the neighborhood, though that makes the least sense. What kind of burglar bangs on the doors of his victims?

Regardless, I start looking for something to protect myself with. A toilet brush, a tooth brush, a razor, a giant jar of hair mask just about exhaust my choices. The banging doesn’t recede. It keeps on insisting that I go to the door, so I pick myself up and wait until the lightheadedness is over and the bright white flashes before my eyes stop, then I tiptoe into the front hallway.

I don’t have a peephole. Shame. All I know is I’m not about to ask who it is, so I just plaster my ear to the door and listen. Another round of banging almost sends me flying back.

“Jo? Jo!”

I freeze. No, no, no, no. It’s him. The reason for all the escalating disasters I’ve lived through in the past couple of days. I’d rather die than answer the door.

“Jo! You in there?”

I curl up at the bottom of the door and bury my face in my knees, wrapping my arms around myself and rocking myself lightly back and forth. Just his voice brings back so many memories that I can’t believe we are not going to meet ever again, he is not going to kiss me ever again, I’m not going to let myself go in his arms ever
ever
again. The finality of it cuts through my soul like a chainsaw.

“Jo, I need to speak to you. I know you are in there.”

I withdraw even further from the door. How does he know? And what could he possibly need to speak to me about? I know every single word will only make things worse.

“Jo, I know what you’re thinking. It’s not like that. You don’t understand. Please, I really need to see you.”

I trusted him once and look where I ended up. On the floor, broken. I think about the baby that’s in my belly. His baby. The baby he put inside me without ever asking me. I grow so angry I’m not even thinking straight any more.

“Get out!” I shriek hysterically at the top of my lungs. “Go away, Andrew! There’s nothing you can say to me.”

“Jo, you are there,” his voice comes through, softer and sounding as if he’s sitting on the floor now too. “Jo, I’m sorry. Fuck, Jo, you need to let me in. I have to see you.”

I feel the onset of tears. If I’ve ever considered myself a strong person, right now I’ve lost every ounce of strength I’ve ever had. My chin wobbles and my lips quiver. I start crying, noisily, ferociously, hopelessly.

“Jo, listen, if you are not going to let me in, at least hear what I have to say. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

Of course he didn’t mean it. He’s only planned it for months and lied straight to my face while he was meticulously plotting my demise. And all of that had nothing to do with anything wrong I did. It had to do with money and that makes it even uglier, lowlier in my books.

In a flash, as I’m rocked by raw, primal tears, I imagine him holding me, comforting me, whispering in my ear that everything will be okay, that he’ll fix it and it won’t hurt any more, that he just wants to see me smile. The vision is so vivid, it feels like it’s shredding my brain from the inside.

“I’m calling the police, Andrew,” I manage to say coarsely, “If you don’t get out of here, I swear, I’m dialing 911.”

“Don’t be like this,” he pleads, “I only want to see you for a moment, Jo. I need to know you are okay.”

“Okay?
Okay
?” I’m losing my mind. I clear my voice and pretend to be speaking into a phone, “Yes, I’d like to report an intruder in my home. The address is…”

“Jo, don’t do this. Fine, if you are not opening that door, at least say you’ll call me. Whenever you are ready. I need to explain—”

“…Yes. Please, hurry,” I whine into the air, but at least it seems to have worked. I no longer hear his voice and the sound of heavy steps receding down the staircase tells me he’s gone. At least for now.

Half an hour goes by before I finally have the willpower to lift myself off the floor again. It seems like I’ve spent most of today sprawled on tiles, carpets and hardwood flooring. My body threatens to shut down if I don’t eat something, so I creep into the kitchen very slowly and start opening the cabinets, assessing my inventory.

It feels a tiny bit comforting that I have this urgent mission, so I won’t have to go back to the bathroom and think about what those tests mean for me right now. I pull out a packet of ramen noodles, the only thing I know how to prepare in less than ten minutes, seeing that there’s no bread in the house, and stick a bowl of water in the microwave.

A click of the front door makes me almost spill the boiling water over myself, but I have a lucky miss and it ends up splashing on the floor, just an inch away from my feet. Without thinking, I grab a knife. What’s wrong with me? I’ve become so paranoid that I’m not processing things in the usual logical way. There are no burglars and no local psychopaths. I calmly remind myself that the only person who can freely walk into the apartment is my mother, but that doesn’t improve the situation much.

Just yesterday she hung up on me. Was she suddenly overwhelmed by some misunderstood motherly instinct? I don’t move and simply wait for her to emerge in the door frame, but then I remember what’s lying on my bathroom floor and start running. I almost knock her down on my way to the bedroom, but I have no time to explain or apologize or care.

“Jo, what’s going on?” she says in an outraged tone and I already wish I could threaten her with 911, too. Why did I ever give her a key to my place? The last thing I need right now is someone judging me or telling me it was all my fault. I know it is, and even if it’s not entirely true and Andrew takes some of the blame, I can’t name names, can I?

I scoop the pregnancy tests from the floor and shove them into the bathroom cabinet a second before my mom’s heels click into the room. She looks as if she’s coming back from attending a fancy funeral. She is dressed all in black, with black nylons and impossibly high stilettos, a black oversized coat that’s open and reveals a tightly fitted black dress with a plunging neckline that’s highly inappropriate for the season, and a pair of black designer sunglasses she’s pushed to the top of her head despite the complete lack of sun in the past weeks.

“Jo, stop moving! I’m not running around after you,” she scolds and I come into the bedroom like an obedient child, staring at my feet.

“What are you doing here, mom?” I ask to divert the inevitable discussion of my appearance. I look like shit and I know it, but surely she doesn’t expect anything fancier than pajamas after all that’s happened.

“Believe me, honey,” she says mildly, “I’m doing my best not to wring your neck right now. Come, let’s sit down.”

She gives my bed with my crumpled sheets bunched up in a ball a judgmental look and I know what she’s thinking. That I’ve probably had a string of men come in and out of here, spilling their juices and performing little stints in front of a camera. And most of all, that I haven’t even bothered washing my sheets, because that’s the filthy person that I am. I roll my eyes and lead the way into the living room, where it’s at least a bit tidier.

We sit down and she looks at me with a mix of fury and concern.

“What were you thinking, Jo? What the
fuck
were you thinking?”

I’m shocked to hear her swear. I admit, I’m much more of a swearer since yesterday, too.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say simply, but I know she’s not letting me off the hook just because I said that.

“Oh, yes, you’re talking about it, young lady, if you ever want to set foot in my home ever again.”

I really want to say just how grateful I’d be to never have to go there ever again, but I manage to restrain myself.

“Do you know just how disappointed your father and brother are? I’m not even going to go into how you made
me
feel.”

“My
brother
?” I blurt out.

“Yes, your brother. Or what? You thought just because you’ve only met him two months ago means he doesn’t care about you? He was most concerned about you, Jo. He’s been such great support for your father through all this.”