The Way It Ends

by Marnie Vinge

  Tonight, she had whiskey in her hand. Ione’s favorite drink. She wondered where Ione was this evening. What was she doing? Who was she doing it with? And she wondered if Ione ever wondered the same things about her.

  She had her doubts.

  She ached over the loss of that friendship. She’d tried with other people and it felt hollow. The intensity of the connection she’d had with Ione had startled her, like a pair of chest paddles raising her from clinical death. The fact that she could feel anything at all after the tremendous losses she had suffered just before starting college floored her.

  In many ways, Ione had done for Birdie what a first love does for other people. She’d become the yardstick by which Birdie would measure all other friendships. And she’d been dismayed to discover that everyone came up wanting.

  It was with this hollow feeling that she watched Tom with those three girls.

  He was a master of presentation, showing only what he wanted to be seen. Like a magician, his words were verbal sleight of hand. Smoke and mirrors in wordplay allowed him to glide right into the situations he wanted to be part of. And tonight, that happened to be right where he found himself: the center of three twenty-somethings’ attention.

  Birdie remembered reading something once about how our losses magnify what we really are. And she knew that was true for Tom. The loss of Ione hadn’t changed him. It had amplified him.

  If he had been charming and charismatic before, he had multiplied the qualities tenfold. She could see it in the way that the people at the church flocked to him like some kind of modern-day messiah. And with the coming publication of Brother Martin’s words with Tom’s name slapped on them, she could only imagine the number of those people proliferating.

  The thought was frightening, but the fear that Birdie felt over it was eclipsed by the lure of the power that would come. Not just to Tom, but to her. That was intoxicating to think about.

  For so long, women had become accustomed to being next to power. And for so long, they had settled for it. Wives of politicians and rock stars. But Birdie saw in this an opportunity not to just be next to it, but to become it. She felt that she had situated herself perfectly for the coming shift in all of Tom’s other relationships. Even if he couldn’t see the book tour and the massive amount of people that would find truth in The Way, she could.

  It was never far from her mind—the thought of where this was all going—and tonight was no exception. As she watched Tom with those three girls, she had to ground herself back in the present moment when Nolan stepped up next to her.

  “Quite a party,” he sipped from a red Solo cup.

  “Aren’t they always?” she mused somewhat more bitterly than she’d intended to.

  “Indeed,” Nolan stretched the word out like a cat’s arching back, seeming to savor his drink and the uncomfortable tension between the two of them.

  “What do you want, Nolan?” Birdie asked.

  Their collegial relationship had become strained in the months since Birdie had been awarded the fellowship. It seemed to be that way with all of her former fellow students. In the moment that she’d received the glory of the award, they were all so ecstatic to see the queen—Ione—deposed from her throne that they celebrated with Birdie. But in the time since then, they’d found a new target for their envy.

  “Easy, tiger,” he said. “Just wanted to chat.”

  Birdie turned to face him.

  “I find it interesting that you still come to these parties,” Birdie said. “After you had to drop out last semester due to, what was it, stress?”

  Nolan bristled against her statement. She was getting to him, which was what she wanted.

  “Didn’t you black out at the last one of these you attended?” she asked, her words an ice pick driven into the center of his insecurities.

  “At least I’m not wasting the best years of my life as a lackey for a has-been,” Nolan spat, turning on his heel and joining some other students in the kitchen.

  Birdie’s venom had driven him away, just as it had so many people over the last year. She was like a cornered animal against all the hate that everyone felt for her—their envy was overwhelming. It was shocking to her at first how deeply it ran, like a deceptively still pool of water. The bottom seemed only a few feet down, but if she’d jumped in, she would have plunged so deep that her lungs would have filled with a burning before she could reach the top again.

  It was best to stay on the surface.

  She looked back into the den and found that Tom was gone. Two of the three girls had found other groups of students to converse with, but the third, a girl that Birdie had recognized as an undergraduate student, was also gone.

  Birdie scanned the room, searching for Tom’s face. She didn’t find it. She walked through the house, stumbling into awkward situations where people had thought they’d be left alone in privacy.

  “Sorry,” she muttered as she left the study, finding Nolan with another male student, seconds away from a kiss. She hoped she’d ruined his evening.

  She wandered out onto the patio, finding nothing but several groups of people conversing and laughing. Spilled alcohol made her sneakers stick to the tile as she re-entered the house. With a squelching noise, she ventured down the hallway that led to the master bedroom, a knot forming in her stomach.

  Voices beat against the door, a male and a female. One of which she recognized as Tom’s. It was cajoling, encouraging. Manipulative, even. The girl spoke back, her tone demure. She wanted to extricate herself from the situation she’d landed in.

  Birdie listened as Tom’s tone became more aggressive. The girl pleaded. A piece of furniture moved, scraping its legs against the hardwood floor of the bedroom. A bedroom that Birdie had gone into only to hang up dry cleaning.

  She felt a pang of jealousy.

  It should have been her in there with Tom.

  Tom shouted something. There was a ripping sound. A slap. The door flew open.

  The girl, who she had recognized as Morgan Wallace, stormed past her, her sweater hanging from her shoulder, the neck stretched and torn. Her lacy bra peeked out just above her breast. She made eye contact with Birdie for a brief moment as she blew through.

  Tom stepped to the doorway.

  “I don’t know what her problem is,” he said with a forced laugh. He ran a hand through his hair nervously.

  Birdie felt like she’d just caught her dad doing something shameful. The pedestal that she’d placed Tom on crumbled. The otherworldly way that his blue eyes seemed to radiate became ordinary.

  But still, she felt for him.

  “Don’t worry,” she said.

  She knew as soon as she said it what she was going to do. And as the inevitable choice before he revealed itself, she realized that she was in love with Tom Wolsieffer. The momentum of the moment didn’t allow her time to reflect and feel sick about it. That would come much later, when the storm had calmed. But for now, she needed to do damage control. And the first piece of that puzzle was to find Morgan.

  And shut her up.

  VANESSA

  Vanessa stands in the library and watches as Tom storms out. There’s little left of their marriage aside from venomous quarrels and the dramatic exits that punctuate those fights. But this time, Vanessa is more concerned with who and what Tom has left in his thunderous wake rather than her own feelings. If she’s being honest, she gave up that concern a long time ago. She’s cried enough tears over Tom for a lifetime. Her interest now is elsewhere.

  She pauses as the door slams behind him. Her senses sharpen with the knowledge that Ione is in the building with her.

  The thought clings to her like a second skin that she longs to shed. She’s carried Ione with her, just as she’s sure her husband has, but their burdens are not the same. Tom doesn’t carry the weight like Vanessa does, cumbersome on every contraction of her heart. She’s weary. But the thought that she might come face to face with the girl is enough to quicken her.

&nb
sp; She inhales the stagnant air in the warm room. The glue binding the books infiltrates her nostrils, the smell reminding her of college. A time before she’d met Tom. A time when her life might have gone differently. How strange it was that one choice could alter the entire trajectory of a person’s existence.

  And had she never met Tom, she’d have never had the displeasure of knowing Ione. The anger she felt towards Birdie paled next to what she felt for the girl who lurked in the stacks of the library. But so much more had been at stake when the affair shook down. She’d had a marriage worth saving then.

  That can’t be said now.

  Vanessa looks around the room for her adversary. There’s a piece of her that longs to talk to the girl, to absorb the outside world that she’s brought in with her. Another piece wants to slap her again, like she did seven years ago in their home off campus.

  And then she spots her.

  A form, shoulders and crossed arms seen through the shelves. The girl is standing still, waiting on Vanessa to make the first move. So, she does.

  She marches, quickly but not silently to the row that Ione stands in. She turns at the end and spots her. She seems so small standing between the two bookshelves. It’s impossible that she could have inflicted so much pain on Vanessa. She doesn’t seem capable of it. Her features aren’t those of a monster as Vanessa so often likes to remember them. They’re softer. Maybe time has done that.

  Maybe time has done that to both of them.

  Ione looks at her, surprise registering in her eyes just long enough to give Vanessa a sense of satisfaction. Grim gladness in the fact that she can still elicit that response from the girl.

  “Vanessa,” Ione says her name like a protective spell. Like saying it will turn Vanessa’s mind and heart.

  “Come with me,” Vanessa’s tone is clipped and short.

  Ione walks forward slowly, cautiously. Vanessa turns, annoyed at her paranoia. She walks quickly to the door and holds it open for the girl. Ione jogs to catch up. They step into the sunlight together.

  They walk in silence towards the main house. Ione breaks it.

  “I’m sorry for everything,” she says.

  A bitter laugh creeps out of Vanessa’s throat.

  Ione clears her own.

  “You came for her,” Vanessa turns and looks at her. The thought washes over her like a vision. She knows next to nothing about Ione’s relationship to Birdie. Only that they were students of Tom’s together. But something in the way that Ione shifts her weight when Vanessa says it makes her think there’s some truth to it.

  Ione looks around, avoiding Vanessa’s eyes.

  “You came for the pregnant girl. For Birdie,” Vanessa says. “You didn’t come for Tom.” It dawns on her suddenly. The girl’s not here for her husband. And there’s a small part of Vanessa that’s disappointed.

  It makes Vanessa think that maybe there’s nothing between Tom and herself that’s worth fighting for anymore. It’s a thought that’s knocked around in her mind for a long time now. Seeing it confirmed on the face of a virtual stranger is enough to make Vanessa want to vomit.

  All of this is for nothing.

  But not if she can save the baby. Not if she can bring that child into this world. She could be a wonderful mother. She knows it. Birdie isn’t ready for it. She’s not cut out for motherhood. Vanessa is.

  But if Ione manages to get Birdie out of here, the child is going with her.

  “Don’t lie to me,” Vanessa prickles against the realization.

  “Fine. I did,” Ione says, stiffening in her posture.

  “She’s not leaving,” Vanessa says. “Tom won’t allow it.”

  “Maybe I can talk to him.”.

  Vanessa thinks for a moment.

  “He might listen to you,” she says. The wall between them—this iron curtain created by time and trauma—begins to descend. Vanessa thinks this might work. Ione might be able to talk to Tom. She might be able to convince him to let her—Vanessa—take Birdie to the hospital. But she has to be careful about how this goes down.

  “I think he would,” Ione says. Her arms cross over her chest.

  “Come on.”

  She leads the way back to the main house. She takes Ione into Tom’s study.

  “I’ll be back,” she says. The words sound more like a threat than a promise.

  Vanessa leaves the girl and goes to the kitchen. She grabs an apple—one of the few things they have a surplus of—and some peanut butter from the pantry. The supplies have dwindled for a while. Probably long before Tom instituted the policy of killing the power between certain hours last summer.

  Tom didn’t talk to Vanessa about the money. He talks to Birdie about that if he talks to anyone. Birdie had situated herself neatly between the pair of them. Vanessa’s ire about the situation with Ione had taken all the grief she had to give. There are dark moments from that period of time that she doesn’t care to relive.

  And Ione being here makes that virtually impossible. She finds her anger rearing its head like a long-caged beast ready to be free. She wants to scream at Tom all over again. Throw a lamp against the wall and watch it shatter over his head while he ducks to avoid it.

  Despite everything, there’s part of her that longs for what she had with Tom in the beginning. He’d been so charming when she’d met him. He’d come into the emergency room, having cut his hand on New Year’s Eve trying to cut frozen hamburger meat. Vanessa had been one of his nurses. A student still herself. She can still remember the way he smiled, lopsided and with his whole face. In that moment, he hooked her. There was no going back. She’d have followed him into hell then and now that she’d arrived there, she wondered what the fuck she’d been thinking.

  But even still, there is a part of her that holds out that maybe they can have their happy ending after all. Maybe they can raise this baby together. Maybe Birdie will leave. Maybe the charges will be dropped. Maybe they can stay in this standoff forever.

  She takes the peanut butter and the apple back to the study and closes the door behind her.

  “Here,” she hands it to Ione.

  The girl takes it. Her hunger overcoming any misgivings she might have about taking the food from Vanessa, her former rival.

  Vanessa sits in the window seat, watching her.

  The girl bites into the apple and spoons out the remainder of the peanut butter, shoving it into her mouth.

  “It’s good,” she says between bites. She finishes the apple in record time, tossing the core into the trash can that sits beside Tom’s massive desk. Vanessa briefly wonders if Ione recognizes it from his office at the university. She wonders how many nights Ione might have spent there with him. The thought has lost most of its bite with time, but with Ione standing there before her, it’s cutting teeth again.

  Vanessa watches her as she finishes eating. Studies her. Wonders why she would come here for a friend from so long ago. Vanessa doesn’t have any relationships that would warrant such extreme action. Not even what’s left in tatters at her feet of the love she and Tom shared.

  Ione locks eyes with her and places the peanut butter on the desk.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  Vanessa nods, accepting the girl’s gratitude reluctantly. It irks her to think she’s done anything for her. Anything that might help her. But then she shifts the frame of her thought: if she helps Ione, maybe Ione will help her.

  And maybe if she makes it seem like she’s helping Birdie, she’ll help her even faster.

  As the two of them stand in silence, a shattering crash rings out just above. A scream pierces the quiet of the house. It’s a primal sound. A woman in great pain.

  Birdie.

  BIRDIE

  The shard of glass glistens with the dark maroon blood from between Birdie’s legs. Her hand shakes as she holds it. Her grasp loosens and the red-stained piece of the lamp clatters to the floor. The rest of the broken light fixture litters the floor. She trembles at the task of holding hers
elf upright for the first time in days. But she feels a surge of adrenaline carrying her forward, making it possible for her to undertake the feat that she must.

  She reaches down, feels between her thighs, and draws back a slick red palm. It worked.

  She smears the blood down her thighs, coats both palms in it. Her shoulder aches at the work before it, but she knows she has to continue. She has to make it look real.

  And then she screams.

  The noise echoes in the room around her, inside the air vents. It travels throughout the rest of the house. She hopes that it sounds desperate. That it sounds real.

  The sound ricochets off the walls and penetrates her body. Her muscles feel the effort of the scream. They constrict around the wound, trying to silence her but she fights them. She has to get out of here and this is her last best chance.

  The pain subsides, her blood carrying the stress chemical to her brain, silencing the pain. Her heart thuds in her chest, heavy and alive, for the first time since the shooting. She realizes suddenly that she’ll do whatever she must to live. She’ll kill if she has to.

  She imagines the scandal that would ripple across the country if she, gone into labor, bleeding from between her legs, was forbade from seeking medical attention just because Tom was afraid of facing the consequences of his actions.

  The thought of the journalist comes back to her. This person can help. This person can see what’s really going on here. This person has no vested interest in making Tom seem like the good guy, in fact, it’s probably the opposite. She just hopes that Tom didn’t see it that way from the start.

  She hopes that this will be enough. That the blood will convince him.

  She fills her lungs once more and screams a second time.

  BIRDIE