by Jc Emery
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
(Colleen)
It’s always about Colleen.
DARLA AND LINDSAY don't ask what my problem is. They just let me sniffle and stay in my daze on the way across the street. They don't comment on the t-shirt change or my red eyes, either. Lindsay seems mildly worried, but Darla seems to understand. Or she thinks she understands. Either way, she's being pretty awesome right now.
It's always about Colleen.
Heather's words play through my head again and again. Part of me wants to believe her; but the other part of me is scared to. What if she was wrong? But then, if she was wrong, why did he read that note so many times? Is it possible? Could he have been in love with me back then?
It's so obvious.
I must be the world's biggest idiot.
The moment we walk into Darla and James's house, the noise level goes through the roof. James is on the living room floor with Lilly and Alex; he has a Barbie in one hand and a toy truck in the other. I spy Fitz in James's lap, chewing on a soft block, drool coating his hand and the toy. James gives me a quiet smile and Darla leads me upstairs and into her and James's bathroom. I don't even ask why. My brain is well past questioning anything anymore. She sits me on the toilet lid and shuts the door behind her, locking it. I notice that we've lost Lindsay somewhere along the way.
"Colleen," Darla's voice is quiet but stern as she holds up a pregnancy test. I stare at it wide-eyed, about to cry. I'm clamming up and retreating to my germ-ridden, fast food littered world of an hour prior, but she won't give in.
"Yes," she says in a gentle, motherly tone. I can see that I won't be winning this one, but I decide to hold out for a little longer. She sits the test down on the counter in front of me.
Little fists bang against the door at alternating heights. Shouts for "mommy" resound from the other side in two different voices. Darla remains still but the voices continue. First Alex breaks out into a desperate cry and then Lilly escalates into a shriek. She cracks immediately and slinks out of the bathroom.
"Take that damn test," she hisses as the little boogers drag her away. Alone in the bathroom, I contemplate my options. I could take the test and either a.) be disappointed because it's negative which would only further serve to show that I'm really just fat; or b.) would confirm my hopes/fears that I am pregnant and of course it has come at a time when Brad can't stand to be around me, and possibly never will again. Some would say (namely Lindsay) that I'm being histrionic.
I look around the room to buy time for a distraction. The toilet seat is not terribly comfortable and I find myself shifting. My right foot slips out and smacks something that feels like it's loaded with water. I look down to see Alex's potty. At first I'm disgusted that it seems to be full. Do they ever clean that thing out?
And then a thought strikes me. I don't necessarily need to take the test with my urine. For starters, I'm being forced into a very emotional event that could send me back into a stinky tailspin; and to top it off, I don't even have Brad here to comfort me. That, of course, is my own doing; but it doesn't make it any easier.
If Heather knew why didn't she say anything? If it was so obvious, then why didn't we know? I call upon the detective that I know is somewhere inside of me and I analyze the situation from an unbiased standpoint. Psychologically, the only reason someone reads a letter as many times as Brad has obviously read Heather's is that it holds value for them. So where is the value? In the apology? In the admission? No.
It's in the "you love her" comment.
And most especially the "she loves you" comment.
Did I?
I suppose I did. Brad has just always been there, always so constant, so steady and wonderful. How did I not know? Perhaps, because I've never known any different.
I force my mind to focus on the task at hand: foiling the pregnancy test. I absolutely refuse to take a pregnancy test without Brad by my side. I think over the moral implications of using my nephew’s discarded pee in order to fool my overbearing but well-meaning friends and family. It only takes a moment for me to decide that it's morally acceptable. After all, it was discarded. It's not like I'm loading the kid up on water and making him go. That would be cruel.
I open the test and squat down before the potty, trying to get this over with as soon as possible. I take a deep breath and open the lid.
Oh, thank God, just pee.
Just as I dip the tip of the stick into the urine, the bathroom door opens and I think I'm busted. I close my eyes but don't move any other muscle.
"Auntie Colleen!" Alex shouts. I let out a deep breath and open my eyes.
"Shut the door, buddy," I say. He toddles in and closes the door behind him.
"What'cha do with my pee?" I cringe, realizing I've been caught mid-urine-theft. I smile as reassuringly as I can at the toddler who is giving me the stink eye.
"Can Auntie borrow your pee, buddy?"
"Don't you got your own?" Alex has one eyebrow raised, just like his mother, and his arms over his chest, staring at me. I remove the stick from the urine and cap it with as little mess as possible and then close the lid and wash my hands.
"I ran out and it's an emergency!" I say with big eyes, pouting. Alex takes a minute to think this over. Finally, he nods his head.
"But you gotta give it back when you get yer own again, okay?" The kid raises his eyebrows at me like this makes any sense. I just nod my head, smiling.
"If you promise not to tell anybody else, Auntie will buy you candy, okay?" He nods his head excitedly. "Remember; don't tell anybody Auntie borrowed your pee."
"I won't," he mutters as he wanders around the bathroom. I stare at the pregnancy test on the counter and then look at the clock on the wall in order to time myself. Hearing footsteps coming down the hall, I quickly flush the toilet and readjust my pants and shirt and all just in time for Darla to walk in the door. She's all giddy and smiling.
"You just wait, Colleen. This is going to be positive." I smile, feeling a little guilty now.
"I doubt it, Darla." She shakes her head.
Minutes pass and we talk about different things: how Lilly is doing in school, how Fitzgerald is starting to work out his leg muscles in preparation to walk, my potential pregnancy, my shattered marriage, my ruined career. Finally, we look down at the test. It's negative. The twinge of sadness at seeing a nice big "not pregnant" across the digital display is only hidden by the fact that it's not my pee. It's not even a woman's pee. It's stolen pee from a toddler. I am the world’s worst aunt.
Geez, I'm screwed up.
Darla's eyes fill with tears and she hugs me. She shakes her head in disbelief and annoyance.
"This test is wrong, Colleen. I just know it." Her words are earnest. She seems half confused and half disappointed. It's like she really wanted us to be pregnant, too. I shake my head of the thought and we walk downstairs. I try to carry Alex just in case he gets a case of the blabsies and tries to out me, but I can't seem to pick him up. My body, both my breasts and my fat belly are getting in the way. Instead, I opt for holding his hand on the way down.
In the living room, Lindsay is on the couch next to Adam, talking quietly. I hear laughter coming from the back of the house in the kitchen. Lilly is gabbing away and before I can make a run for it, I see Brad. He's got Lilly seated on the kitchen counter, and he's listening intently to her day.
"What's Brad doing here?" I ask Darla as quietly as I can. At the sound of his name, his head shoots around and he stares at me. With hurt in his eyes, he gives me a sad smile. I return the sad smile, tears coming to my eyes.
"He's been staying here," Darla says and continues on behind, pushing me into the kitchen. I'd been wondering where he'd gone. Somehow, knowing he'd been less than 500 feet away is harder than if he'd been a couple blocks away at his mom's house.
"Well, this isn't awkward," James mutters. Darla gives him a look and he just shakes his head. "I'm just saying," he defends himself.
"Can we tal
k?" I ask Brad. He shrugs.
"Talk," he says.
"Alone?" I let go of Alex and he steps away from Lilly. His body has visually tensed and he looks like he's on edge. I look at him, I mean really look at him, and he looks tired. With a few days' worth of stubble and bags under his eyes, it looks like he's keeping up only slightly better than me. He's wearing his sleuthing suit, as I like to call it. He's either getting ready for shift or getting off shift. I can't remember his schedule for today.
"Here's fine." I gulp. Something stirs inside me. It could be courage, or fear. Hell, at this point, it could be gas. Either way, I feel this overwhelming desire to run to him and kiss him and to never let him go. I can't play games anymore. I can't hide behind myself in my untidy little hole. I've fallen to pieces without him.
"I love you," I blurt out. The relief of getting it off my chest sends me on a roll. I can't shut up now; but I can't look at him, either. I screw my eyes shut and ball up my fists and I let the verbal diarrhea spew. I hear a police radio in the background, but it doesn't deter me. "I love you and I don't want out and you're not just a friend. I love you, Brad. I love you!"
"Repeat central, repeat," I hear Brad say. Confusion sets in and I open my eyes. He's got the radio to his mouth, jaw slack, and eyes wide. In a moment of haze, I think he's talking to me.
"I said I love you! I don't want out. I want you, Brad. You!" I realize that I'm shouting, but I can't control myself, which is nothing new lately. He plugs his left ear with his thumb and stares at me. It seems he wasn't talking to me. He was talking to the station. But he heard me. I know he did. I can tell by the deer-in-headlights look he's giving me.
"Patrick," the nasally voice wafting through the radio belongs to Vicky. I still don't like her. "I said there's a burglary at the corner of Dorchester and Broadway. I know you're not on shift yet, but you're around the corner." He nods.
"We'll be on foot," he says with his work mask on. I can see my Brad under there and I want him to come out. I'm a selfish being at my core. Some poor sap is getting robbed around the corner and here I am pouting because I want my big mushy "I love you" time with my husband.
"James! We got a 10-26 over on Dorchester," Brad shouts and clips the radio to his belt. James appears in his suit. I surmise that they're heading out to work now. So now, not only do I have to wait until after an arrest to get some time with my husband, now I have to wait until the end of his shift, too. Damn it. That is, if he feels the same, but I don’t let myself consider that.
"Wait!" I scream and rush to place myself between Brad and the front door. "I said I love you!" I put my hands on my hips in annoyance. This is supposed to be my big moment. He's supposed to be overcome with joy. He's supposed to be ravaging me. This is supposed to be my big romantic gesture. What the hell?
"Yeah, I heard you, crazy. Now, I have to go!" Brad's calm demeanor has cracked and slides past me and runs out the door at full speed. James spares one look at Darla and then at me and runs out the door after him. In my frenzied state, I chase (okay, so it's more of a run/waddle) after them, shaking my fist.
"I'm going to kick your butt when you get home, Bradley Patrick!" As I'm shaking my fist at his retreating form, I hear laughing behind me. I turn around to see Darla, Lindsay, and Adam in various states of undoing. Their faces are contorting and they're turning purple. All it takes is for Adam to double over in a fit of laughter before the other two follow their lead. This continues on until Lilly and Alex make their way over to see what the ruckus is about. Soon, the kids join in laughing even though they have no clue what they're laughing about.
"That was really awkward," Adam manages to get out in between breaths.
"I have never seen an 'I love you' go like that before," Lindsay squeaks out as she clings to Adam for support.
"What just happened?" I ask. One minute I'm bearing my soul and the next I'm the butt of a joke. I replay it in my head and soon I'm laughing, too. And then I have to pee. Small tears spring from my eyes; because really, on what planet does that ever happen? How does it happen that you tell someone you're in love with them and they call you crazy and then run away?
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
(Brad)
Congratulations.
WE'RE NOT PREGNANT and it's just something I'm going to have to deal with. I've been dealing with it. I just wish I weren't dealing with it alone, across the street. I am the one who walked out, but that doesn't make it any easier. Whatever my pretty girl's going through, I want to go through it with her; only she doesn't want me to.
Colleen has been crying at the drop of a hat lately and it's wearing me out. When I acknowledge that she's upset, she gets even more upset and tells me to go away. When I pretend that I don't notice the tears, she accuses me of being a heartless bastard. And then there's the eating. The woman eats all the time. I'm starting to wonder if maybe a clearance pregnancy test was such a good idea, because Colleen is reminding me a lot of Darla when she was pregnant.
It's been weeks since we found out that we are not going to have a baby; and we definitely haven't been engaging in any activity that leads to a baby, so it looks like parenthood is out for now—which really sucks. It's not that I have "baby rabies" like chicks get. It's just that having a kid with Colleen would be pretty cool. My pretty girl would make a beautiful baby—crazy, but beautiful.
I don't know what to do with her—not that I ever have. And the worst part is that I don't think she wants me to do anything with her. It feels like I'm losing her more and more every day that goes by that I'm not with her. It's terrifying. I've never been so close to having her and losing her all at the same time.
It's been nearly a week since I left the house. I didn't know what else to do. She didn't want me there. She doesn't seem to want me anywhere, so I left. She didn't exactly say she wants out, but that was the gist of the idea. And now she's here at James's—my refuge—and I can't decide if I want to scream at her or if I want to kiss her; not that that's anything new.
She asks if we can talk and I want to talk to her. It's just bad timing. I'm about to head out on shift and if the conversation goes bad, then the entire shift is going to be awful. And maybe I'm a baby because I can't handle it if she tells me she wants out. Just maybe.
"Here's fine," I say. We have an audience—a bunch of nosey bastards making no attempt to give us any privacy—but whatever. I just want to get this over with. If she's going to leave me, I'd rather it be quick. And if I'm being honest with myself, she looks like she wants to leave me; or the house at least. She wants to run, I can see it. Midway through my frustration at our very private conversation being made public by a bad venue, she starts rambling.
"I love you," she screams at a level I swear I thought only dogs could hear. My mouth falls open. She looks very uncomfortable; her eyes shut tight, fists at her sides. This doesn't look like my Colleen. This is that other Colleen that I don't care for very much. My Colleen isn't afraid of anything; but this woman is terrified. The fear is practically rolling off her in waves, sweat beads forming on her forehead.
Did she just say she loves me?
I'm about to ask her to repeat what she said—just in case I might be hallucinating—when my radio goes off. Very faintly in the background, I can hear Vicky's voice directing me to a burglary in progress. This gives new meaning to the phrase "bad timing." I can't stand here and hash it out with Colleen, and I can't respond to the call before clearing a few things up. For a split second, I'm tempted to ignore the dispatch; but I can't. I would never be able to live with myself if someone got hurt because I was dealing with my own personal crap.
Colleen's talking and I can't hear half of what she's saying, but what I am hearing isn't very fucking good. I hear "I love you" and then I hear "friend" and then "I love you" again. I shake my head in frustration and ask Vicky to repeat the message as I plug my finger in my ear and hold the radio close to the other one. I think Colleen will get the hint, but she doesn't. Now she's rattling off about s
omething or other. I can't tell if she's telling me she loves, if she's telling me she doesn't want me, or if she's accusing me of something because the last thing I hear is a very loud "you!" coming from her.
Like I said. Bad timing.
"Patrick," Vicky says, agitated. "I said there's a burglary at the corner of Dorchester and Broadway. I know you're not on shift yet, but you're around the corner."
I choose not to think about what Colleen's telling me because I have to respond to this call. At a time like this right now, I wish I were an accountant or something so a work emergency didn't constitute life and death. Unfortunately, that's not the world I live and work in.
I have to answer this call.
I shut Colleen out in an effort to regain my composure and I tell Vicky that James and I will take care of it.
"James! We got a 10-26 over on Dorchester," I shout and clip the radio to my belt. James races down the stairs—as evidenced by the sounds of a stampede that he's making; and we rush for the front door. He tells me not to worry about the car that we'll be faster on foot. Colleen moves to stand between me and the front door. James is behind me and being blocked from going outside and giving me a look that brokers no argument. We have to go.
"Wait!" Colleen yells. I stare at her like she's grown a second head. And hell, she might have. She's started to grow a second ass lately. Not that I'm complaining, she's always been too skinny. "I said I love you!"
What?
So many things happen at once. My heart speeds up as my ears finally register that she is telling me she loves me. She places her hands on her hips, looking put out and ticked off with the burglary around the corner. And James is standing beside me, huffing away. I hear a commotion outside and then screaming; it's faint, but still close by. Fuck. I say the first thing—and probably worst thing—I can think of.
