Chapter 3: Loose Ends
1451 Words
“Just a sec!” I yelled, my voice kinda squeaking. I gave the paint box a hard shove with my foot. It scraped under the bed. I sucked in a breath, tried to wipe my face clean of any look, and opened the door.
Marcus was right there on the other side. He looked pissed. “Why’s the door locked?”
“The lock’s weird,” I said, stepping back. “It gets stuck.” Another lie, piling up.
He didn’t come in. Just stood in the hall looking at me. “Car’s coming at 2:45. For the doctor. Don’t be late. I want to know everything after.”
“You want a report on your pregnant girlfriend?” It slipped out. My mouth has a death wish.
His face went flat. “On her condition. The baby’s. It’s important. You go in with her. Listen. I don’t want her getting anything wrong.”
He meant he didn’t trust her. Or he thought she was dumb. I just nodded. “Whatever.”
He stared for another second, waiting for me to say more. I didn’t. He turned and walked away, his shoes clicking on the hardwood.
I shut the door and my knees felt weak. Too close.
The car came exactly on time. Black, shiny. Anya looked nervous in a little blue dress. I wore my jeans. We didn’t talk. She stared out her window. I stared out mine.
Dr. Shaw’s office was the kind of place that smells like lemon polish and expensive perfume. Quiet. Thick carpet. I felt grubby just walking in.
We signed in. A nurse took Anya back. I sat in a plush chair with a bunch of other women, all glowing and wearing rings that probably cost more than my car. I picked up a magazine about strollers and put it down fast.
Twenty minutes later, the nurse came out. “Mrs. Blackwood? She’s asking for you.”
That surprised me. I followed her. Anya was on the exam table, paper crinkling under her. She looked tiny in the gown.
“Doctor’s coming,” the nurse said, and left.
“You didn’t have to ask for me,” I told her.
“I know.” She picked at the paper. “I just… I don’t like being in here alone.”
Dr. Shaw came in. Older guy, nice enough. “Let’s see this baby,” he said. He squirted the cold gel on her stomach and started the ultrasound.
That sound filled the room. The whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of a heartbeat. Then the blurry black and white shape on the screen. A head. A little curled-up spine.
Anya’s eyes were huge. She had this look. Scared and amazed.
“Everything’s perfect,” Dr. Shaw said, moving the wand. “Growing right on schedule. Good strong heartbeat. You’re doing great.”
Anya let out a shaky breath.
He printed pictures and gave them to her. Talked about prenatal vitamins. Drinking water. Then he glanced at me. “And how are you holding up? It’s a big change for everyone.”
He thought I was a sister. Or a friend. Something nice.
“I’m fine,” I said.
He nodded, not really caring, and told Anya to come back in four weeks.
In the car, Anya held the ultrasound pictures in her lap. Just staring.
“It’s real,” she whispered.
“Yeah.” I looked out the window. A real baby. Another person for Marcus to ruin.
He was home when we got back. Came out of his office fast. “Well?”
“It’s good,” Anya said, holding out the pictures. “He said everything’s perfect.”
Marcus took them, glanced, and handed them back. “Good. That’s what he’s for.” Like she’d just brought him a dry cleaning receipt. “Clara. My study. Now.”
My stomach twisted. I followed him.
He shut the door. “Sit.”
I sat in the stiff chair. He didn’t sit. He stood by the window.
“Doctor said she’s fine? No issues?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He turned. “I need you more hands-on. This is your main focus now. Her meals, her rest, her appointments. No stress. Stress is bad for the product.”
The product. He called his baby a product.
“Okay,” I said. My voice sounded dead.
He looked at me. “You’ve been different. Since she got here.”
“Have I?”
“Yes. Withdrawn.” He walked over and leaned on the desk, right in front of me. “This is how it’s going to be, Clara. This is the future. You need to understand your place in it.”
My place. The help. The invisible woman.
“I understand,” I heard myself say.
He nodded. “Go.”
I left. Went straight to the little bathroom under the stairs and locked the door. I bent over the sink, breathing hard. I looked in the mirror. I looked like hell.
I opened the medicine cabinet. Just needed aspirin. My head was pounding.
And there it was. On the top shelf. A little orange bottle with his name on it. Ambien. From when he couldn’t sleep last year. He’d maybe taken two.
I stared. He’d forgotten all about it.
I didn’t think. I grabbed the bottle, shook it. Lots of pills. I popped the cap and dumped them straight into the bottom of my purse. They scattered under my wallet and gum wrappers. I put the empty bottle back.
I didn’t know why I took them. Just seemed like a thing to have. A bad option, sitting in my bag.
That night, after dinner, Marcus went to work. Anya went upstairs. I cleaned.
Later, I was just sitting on the floor in my dark room when there was a quiet knock.
It was Anya. She’d been crying.
“What?” I asked.
“I felt it,” she whispered. Her hand was on her stomach. “The baby moved.”
She looked terrified.
I sighed. “Come in.”
She came in and sat on the floor next to me. We didn’t talk for a minute.
“He didn’t even look at the pictures,” she said.
“I know.”
“What am I going to do?” Her voice cracked.
I had no answer. But I had cash under the bed. Pills in my purse. My own sick little stash.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But the baby moving… that’s yours. He doesn’t get that part. That’s just for you.”
She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Why are you being okay to me? You should hate me.”
“I’m tired,” I said. And I was. So tired.
We just sat there. Two people stuck in the same bad dream.
The next morning I went out. Told Anya I was getting that special tea. Really I had my first cancer appointment. At a clinic on the other side of the city, under a fake name.
The doctor, Dr. Lee, was straight with me. Went over the plan again. Chemo. Soon. A port in my chest. The whole nasty deal.
“Your odds are good,” she said. “But it’s hard. You’ll need help. Who’s your person?”
I looked at the floor. “I’m figuring that out.”
She gave me a look but let it go. Gave me prescriptions. Told me they could put the port in next week. Then we start.
Next week. It was really happening.
“How much?” I asked. My throat was tight.
She told me. The number was huge. Impossible. My insurance is Marcus’s. I can’t use it.
I left the clinic numb. I walked for blocks. Just walked.
I need so much money. I have to steal more. Or find it somewhere. I have to vanish while getting poison pumped into me. It’s impossible.
I stopped at a*****e and bought the dumb overpriced tea. Drove home.
Marcus’s car was in the drive. He was home early.
I walked in, the tea bag in my hand. He was in the foyer, holding something.
It was the little velvet bag. The empty one from my grandma’s jewelry.
My heart just stopped.
He turned the bag over in his fingers. “Found this,” he said. His voice was quiet. Too quiet. “In the bottom of your purse.”
He looked up at me, his eyes dark.
“So,” he said, slow and cold. “You want to tell me why your grandma’s jewelry bag is in your purse, Clara? And why the hell is it empty?”
- Writer
