Twisted (17 page)

I cover my ears. “TMI Delores! T. M. I.” There are some things

you just don’t want to know about your friend’s husband. What

happened?”

She huffs and sits down next to me. “Apparently, after I left

for the airport this morning, Matthew went to check on Drew.

The apartment was locked up like Fort Knox, but Matthew had

that extra key. So he goes in and finds your ass-hat ex-boyfriend

passed out wasted, on the bathroom floor.
After
he went all Left Eye Lopes, setting shit on fire in the bathtub.”

“What!?”

“Exactly. Matthew said if he hadn’t gone by when he did, the

whole place could’ve gone up.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “What was he burning?”

Delores shrugs. “Matthew didn’t say.”

Yeah—but I bet it wasn’t any of Drew’s stuff going up in flames.

Bastard.

Delores goes on. “So Matthew got the pathetic excuse for a

man sobered up. At first Drew didn’t want to talk, but Matthew

kept at him. And eventually, he spilled like oil in the Gulf.”

My stomach clenches, “he . . . he . . . told Matthew about the

baby?”

Delores nods. “Matthew said Drew told him everything that

went down between you two.”

Okay. This is a good thing. If Drew is telling his family I’m

pregnant, maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe all he needed

was some time to get used to the idea. And Matthew’s a great

person to talk to in this situation. Not as good as Steven or

Alexandra, but still—he’s pretty level-headed. At least com-

pared to Drew.

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“What did Matthew say?”

Delores grinds her teeth together. “he said he couldn’t believe

you would do something like this to Drew.”

“
What
?”

Cue the music.

It’s the Twilight Zone.

In the end, I knew Team New York would take Drew’s side—I

said they would. But I thought . . . maybe . . . they’d defend me. Or at the very least, be pissed off about his methods.

Delores puts her hand over mine. “Don’t let what Matthew

said get to you. It’s only natural that he’d back Drew up—just like I’d help you bury the body, even if it was my own dear mother we

were tossing into the ground.”

“Delores, that’s sick.”

“Oh, really? You weren’t the one who walked into the house

and heard her mother knockin’ boots with Sheriff Mitchell!”

My mouth drops open.

Delores continues disgustedly, “And they were loud. Like sur-

round-sound, IMAX-theater loud. I’m totally scarred for life.”

Let’s pause here a moment.

You’ve never met the good sheriff, so I’ll explain. Growing up,

Sheriff Ben Mitchell was the thorn in our sides, the rock in our

shoes, the pain in our asses. he had nothing better to do than follow us around—breaking up our beer bashes, pulling Billy’s car

over and searching it for weed.

he always thought we were up to something . . . and . . .

well . . . he was right.

But that’s beside the point.

Even though Sheriff Mitchell was about the same age as

our parents, to us, he always seemed older—like that grumpy

neighbor with a cane who never lets you get the baseball that

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E m m a c h a s E

accidentally lands in his yard. Mitchell was never married and

didn’t date as far as we knew, so it was always assumed that

his wrinkly face and piss-poor attitude came from his extreme

inability to get laid.

Amelia Warren is the opposite of Mitchell in every way. She’s a

free spirit. An official card-carrying member of the healing Power of Crystals Club. A flower child for the modern age.

The very idea of them getting it on is equal parts horrifying

and peculiar.

I shudder. “You’re right. That is sick.”

Billy hops down the stairs. “What’s sick?”

Delores drops the bomb. “Amelia and Old Man Mitchell

screwing—on the kitchen table.”

Billy grimaces. And whines, “Aw, man . . . I ate on that table

this morning.”

I turn to him. “Did you know about this?”

“I had my suspicions. But I was hoping I was wrong.”

Delores agrees, “Weren’t we all. I don’t know what was worse—

having to listen to my mother moaning in ecstasy, or hearing him

beg for more and having to visualize what the fuck she was doing

to him.”

I cover my mouth.

And laugh.

We all do. It starts off small, and then builds—to a table-

smacking, eye-tearing, bent-over-at-the-waist crescendo.

“Oh . . . my . . . God!”

And even though Delores is cackling, she insists, “It’s not

funny! I think my girl parts are broken. Every time I think about

it, my vagina clamps down like a littleneck clam fighting to stay

closed.”

We howl louder. And it’s the first real, genuine laughter I’ve

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had since this all began. My cheeks hurt and my sides ache—and

it feels wonderful.

You know, sometimes I try and picture what my life would be

like if Dee Dee wasn’t in it. And then I stop.

Because I just really can’t imagine it.

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After we got Delores settled in my room, Billy put a call in

to his manager. he planned to do a show here at a little

bar called Sam’s Place, where he used to play in high school. he

wanted to honor the place where he came from—give something

back to the locals, like Bruce Springsteen always does at the Stone Pony.

And Sam’s Place is where we are right now.

It’s packed—standing room only. Delores and I are in front,

our arms bumping against each other as we dance and sing. Billy’s

up on stage, a few songs into his first set. he looks fantastic. Dark jeans, a crisp white button-down, and a clean-shaven chin.

he knows just how to work the crowd—when to get them

fired up with a guitar-screaming riff or settle them down with soft ballad.

I’ve never been more proud of him.

The song ends and someone in the back yells that they love

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his mouth to the microphone. “I love you guys too. So this next

song is new. I haven’t played it for any of the suits yet, but I wanted to play it for you tonight. It’s for someone . . . who believed in me . . . even when there wasn’t much of a reason to. And I want her to know that I’ll always have her back, that she’ll always be in my heart, and she’ll never be alone.”

his eyes find mine in the crowd. And he winks. I nod, message

received. Then he starts to sing.

Years feel like yesterday

And I can’t believe how fast time flies

Don’t want to let another second go

Without letting you know

What you always should have known

I’ll catch you if you stumble

Pick you up if you fall

Hold you when you’re hurting

But baby, most of all,

I’ll be there . . . so you’ll never be alone

Don’t ever feel alone

The beat pulses in my stomach. And I listen to the words. And

I think about how lucky I am to have all the things I do. Price-

less, precious blessings. I have a family that loves me. Friends who would kill for me. Literally.

And I think about who I am. I survived my father’s death with

my soul intact. I graduated Wharton School at the top of my class.

Remember when I first started working at the firm? And Drew

Evans was the golden boy? And I put him right in his place—

kicked his ass from one end of the office to the other.

I
did that.

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Because I was stubborn. And smart. And because I believed I

was capable. Drew once told me you can change the color of the

walls, but the room would still be the same.

And he was right.

I was all those things before him—and I’m still all those things

now.

Without him.

From now on, each day that goes by

Gonna give it my best try

To show you what you mean to me

’Cause if I don’t have you on my side

None of this means anything

Don’t want to let another second go

Without letting you know

What you always should have known

have you ever lost your keys? And you check all your pockets

and pull the cushions off the couch. And then—after searching for

ten minutes—you turn around and there they are. On the table.

Right in front of you the whole time.

Almost . . . like the answer was too easy to see right away.

That’s what this feels like.

Because suddenly I know what I want. I’m confident. Cer-

tain. And I know what I’m capable of. It won’t be easy—the great-

est achievements in life never are. Things like climbing Everest, or becoming the president? They’re difficult. But so worth it.

I’ll catch you if you stumble

Pick you up if you fall

Hold you when you’re hurting

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But baby, most of all

I’ll be there . . . so you’ll never be alone

Don’t ever feel alone

I imagine myself a few years from now, walking home on the

city streets from the job I love—one hand holding a briefcase, the other holding the small, sweet hand of my little girl or boy.

And I picture us at the dining-room table, working on home-

work and talking about our day. I see story times, and bedtimes,

tickle-times, hugs, and butterfly kisses.

Being a single mother wasn’t something I’d ever planned to

be . . . but now? It’s who I want to be.

I’ll be there every step of the way

Won’t miss a moment

I’ll be there every step of the way

Won’t miss a moment

You know that saying? The best-laid plans of mice and men . . . ?

You might want to remember that right about now.

Because as soon as the decision takes root in my mind, I feel a

dull throbbing. You ladies will know what I’m talking about. That

pulling cramp in my lower abdomen. And a thick, warm wetness

oozes out from between my legs, seeping into my underwear.

My heartbeat pounds against my chest, and I head for the rest-

rooms. hoping I’m wrong.

But once I’m in the stall, I see that I’m not.

I stumble back out of the bathroom, into the crowd. My hands

shaking with dread, with fear. Because this is wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

I grab Delores’s arm and tell her. But the music’s too loud, and

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she doesn’t hear me. I pull her to the back of the bar, where it’s quieter, and I force the words out.

“Dee, I’m bleeding.”

Forest Gump had it all wrong. Life isn’t like a box of chocolates.

Doctors are.

The vivacious but inexperienced physician right out of medical

school, or the battle-hardened know-it-all finishing the last min-

utes of a twenty-hour shift—you never know what you’re gonna

get.

“Spontaneous abortion.”

My eyes snap away from the gray blob of the ultrasound screen

to the steel-blue eyes of the emergency-room doctor. But he’s not

looking at me—he’s too busy writing on his clipboard.

“Wh . . . what did you say?”

“Spontaneous abortion—miscarriage. It’s common in the first

trimester.”

I make an effort to process his words, but I can’t quite manage

it. “Are you . . . are you saying I’m losing my baby?”

Finally he looks up. “Yes. If you haven’t already lost it. This

early in gestation, it can be difficult to tell.”

As he wipes the cool, clear gel off my abdomen, Delores

squeezes my hand. We called my mother on the way to the hospi-

tal, but she hasn’t gotten here yet.

I swallow hard, but I refuse to give up. Stubborn—remember?

“Is there anything you can do? hormone therapy or bed rest?

I’ll do bed rest for the entire nine months if it’ll help.”

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his tone is clipped and impatient. “There’s nothing I could pre-

scribe that could stop this. And believe me, you wouldn’t want me

to. Spontaneous abortion is natural selection, the body’s way of terminating a fetus with some catastrophic deformity that would have

prevented it from surviving outside the womb. You’re better off.”

The room starts to spin as the hits keep on coming. “You need

to make a follow-up appointment with your regular gynecologist.

When the fetal tissue is expelled, you should scoop it out of the

toilet with a strainer. Then put it in a spill-proof container—a jelly jar would work well—so your doctor can analyze the remains and

ensure the uterus is empty. If all the uterine matter isn’t . . .”

I press the back of my hand against my mouth to keep the bile