Not Looking for Love: Episode 3

by Bourne, Lena

  My risotto is perfect, and the rice melts in my mouth, but I have no appetite. Normally, I'd be asleep by now and I can't wait to get home.

  Dad eats fast, like he wants to leave too. And I understand him perfectly. Neither one of us can talk of Mom, it's too soon, yet not talking about her is painful too. I glance at the empty chair to my right a few times, trying to picture her sitting there, eating her own dinner, probably gnocchi, she always ordered that at Italian restaurants, but I can't. All I see is her dead body covered by a thin white sheet in the morgue.

  Dad orders his third whiskey once the waiter collects our plates.

  "Should you be drinking so much, if you're driving?" I ask, unable to stop myself this time. I'm already seeing Dad's bloody and battered body on a morgue slab, right beside Mom, and then I'll be all alone in the world. I can feel the chill from where I sit.

  "It'll be fine," he says and drains half the glass. "I thought we could take a walk before I leave."

  I call the waiter over. "Let's go now."

  Dad pays and drinks the rest of his whiskey while I'm already standing, ready to leave.

  Outside, the wind is picking up like it might rain, and now I'm picturing my dad driving home drunk, with zero visibility because of the sheets of rain coming down.

  I wrap my arm around his as we walk. "Dad, can you stay the night? Leave in the morning?"

  "I have some work to finish up tomorrow," he says, and I know his mind is already on that and no longer here with me.

  "Please. The third room is still empty at mine and Phillipa's," I urge. I won't let him drive home tonight, I won't.

  "I couldn't impose like that. Besides, I have nothing with me."

  I stop in front of the all-night drugstore. "Here, we can get you a toothbrush."

  "Sweetheart, I'll be just fine," he says and places his free hand over mine. "I'll drive slowly."

  "No, you'll stay here," I say pulling him towards the drugstore.

  "Gail, come on now. Nothing will happen to me. I'm not even drunk."

  It's his tone that silences my protests more than anything else. It's firm and relentless and I believe him, just like I always do.

  "Call when you get in, whatever the time," I mutter and he agrees.

  He walks me to my house, and then I'm watching him turn the corner on the way back to the restaurant. I take out my phone to turn the ringer back on, so he can call and tell me he's alright later. There's a call from Scott, the sight sending a sharp cramp through my stomach. I leave the ringer off.

  "Let's go then," Phillipa says at eleven the next morning, sticking her head in through my bedroom door. I've been up since four, outlining my term paper on the situation in Syria, and how the various agencies could do a better job of working together to solve the crisis. It's not due until after Thanksgiving, but I'm done with all my other homework and reading.

  "Go where?" I ask, taking off my reading glasses and rubbing my eyes.

  "Boot Camp, of course." She's already wearing her gym clothes, and I'm still in my pajamas.

  "I don't know. How about I go sometime next week?" I ask.

  She strides into my room and opens my closet. "Nonsense. Let's go. You'll feel better afterwards, I guarantee it."

  She fishes around and pulls out my own gym clothes, holding them out for me to take. The firm glint in her eyes tells me she won't stop pestering me until I give in. Fifteen minutes later we're at the gym, and I'm giving my name and information to a short, bulky instructor who looks like he'd be more comfortable in some desert warzone than in this air-conditioned, sparkly gym.

  There's ten of us, mostly women, which somewhat settles my fears that I'll get muscles just like his from this. Or just like Scott's, but I'm done thinking about him.

  The instructor starts us off with some jumping jacks, while his assistant prepares a scary looking obstacle course, complete with weights, steps, medicine balls and thick ropes. I have to stop and rest before the warm-up is even over.

  We split up into pairs to start the obstacle course. After the first round, I'm mostly just watching Phillipa do the exercises, because I'm nauseous like I might throw up, which is not something I want to do in front of all these people, though there's a bucket set out in the corner for that purpose.

  We finish the session by running ten laps around the gym, which is something I should be good at, but I'm winded after three.

  "You'll do better next time, you just have to stick with it," the instructor tells me while I'm sitting on the floor, trying to get my breath back. I nod because I can't speak.

  "So, what did you think?" Phillipa asks on the drive back.

  I catch sight of myself in the side mirror. My face is completely purple. "I'm not sure I'm cut out for this type of torture."

  "I was dead on my feet the first time too, but it'll get easier," Phillipa says and laughs.

  I'm not sure I'll ever go back, and that conviction grows when I can hardly make it down the stairs the next morning, because muscles I didn't even know I had hurt like someone sliced them open.

  But I still go again on Wednesday and the following Sunday, because she's right. The exercise is making me feel stronger, like I can beat the abyss, maybe even climb out again one day. Or maybe it's just the soreness in my muscles that's driving all else from my mind.

  Three weeks of Boot Camp later, and my biceps are defined, my legs completely fat free, but my stomach still won't go flat.

  "Maybe you're just bloated," Phillipa says as I complain to her about it over a Sunday dinner. "You should eat better."

  My dinner is a plate of French fries with honey mustard.

  I make a face. "I hardly eat at all. I'm still nauseous most of the time."

  "You might want to take it easy for awhile then," she suggests.

  "Weren't you the one who made me start exercising?" I don't want to stop now. I'm so tired each night that I haven't even needed a sleeping pill for almost a week. Even the dreams of my mom are gone, and I'd do anything to make them stay away for good.

  "I'm sure you're fine, Gail, don't stress so much," Phillipa says. "You're probably just going to get your period."

  My insides fill with ice as she says it, and I drop the French fry I was about to eat. It can't be. I'd been off the pill for maybe a day or two when I did it with Scott, if at all. I can't be pregnant. But my stomach is rounded, my breasts are sore and I'm puking up my breakfast almost every day. Right now, I'm eating fries with mustard, which I'll probably follow up with some strawberry yogurt and chips. Just like I've been doing for the past week.

  "What is it Gail? Are you feeling alright?" Phillipa asks, her eyes wide. "Your face is completely white."

  "Fine," I say and get up to deposit my plate on the counter, my legs jelly.

  I can't be pregnant. It's not possible. Not so quickly. I've been on the pill, since I was seventeen. No way I could get pregnant so quickly after missing just a few days. Not after having sex twice.

  Phillipa is standing right beside me, her face about in inch from mine. "Talk to me, Gail. What's wrong?"

  I force a smile even though my face feels like it's frozen still. "Nothing. I just remembered a huge mistake I made during my test on Friday. I hope old Harvey doesn't flunk me because of it."

  Phillipa sighs and laughs. "Gail, you really scared me. But knowing you, it's probably just some trivial date you got wrong, so I'm sure you'll be fine."

  "I don't know. Harvey might lose all respect for me because of it. I better go email him right now," I say and run out of the kitchen. If I stayed in the kitchen a second longer I'd tell her everything, and I can't do that, because then it would be real.

  The last period I remember having was in August. Or was that the excuse I gave Kate, so I wouldn't have to go to her beach party?

  I stare at my belly in the mirror for what feels like hours, even Google some pictures of women pregnant for a month or so. But it could just be normal, I could just be bloated, and the websites all say that
stress and hard exercise can make you miss your period.

  In the end, I tiptoe back down the stairs and drive to the drugstore to pick up a pregnancy test. But then I just stare at it until past midnight, my heart bouncing inside my chest. I want to sleep, but I won't take a pill, not with a baby growing inside of me. Only I can't keep it. I'm still in school.

  It's a girl, I know it is. And then I'll get cancer and die young and she'll be all alone in the world. Sarah I'd call her, I always loved that name.

  I fall asleep leaning against the headboard of my bed, and wake up at dawn, my neck stiff and all the lights still on. I stuff the pregnancy test in the drawer. I can't be pregnant and I'm not.

  I call my gynecologist as soon as her office opens at eight, and she assures me it's probably just the stress and exercise stopping my period. It's not very likely that I got pregnant after forgetting to take just a few pills. But she wants to see me before I start taking the pills again, just in case. I make an appointment for next week and hang up.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  On Thursday, Phillipa chases me down after my second period class.

  "Gail, you won't believe this. My cousin is in New York City this weekend," she says, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. "You know the one I told you about?"

  "The one who married into the royal family?" I ask.

  She nods and a few strands of hair come loose from her bun. "Anyway, she wants to get together for some shopping and drinking. What do you think?"

  "Sounds like fun," I venture.

  "Great! Then we're leaving tomorrow after class!"

  "Wait, no!" I yell after her, but she's already jogging down the hall, and can't hear me over the crowd spilling to and from the classroom I just left. The last thing I want to do is go party in the city. I'd planned to spend the weekend in bed deciding what to do about Sarah.

  I've been throwing up every morning and every evening now, and my stomach is growing daily. I can't drink because of Sarah, and I can't raise her, because I can't even cry over my mom dying. I should call Scott, I really should. But how would that help? He hasn't called me since that night I had dinner with Dad and he's probably forgotten all about me by now.

  I lean against the wall, holding my bag across my stomach so no one jostles me. Suddenly, I can't face the rest of the day. But if I went home now, I'd just lie in bed, my mind racing into a million different directions, and that would be even worse.

  I made a few attempts to get out of going to the city, but Phillipa breezed right over them all, and wouldn't take no for an answer. She's driving, and I lean back in my seat, staring at the bare autumn scenery flashing by. As we enter New York, my chest cramps up, and the pain doesn't let up even after we're across the bridge and in the city.

  I'm only a half hour train ride away from Scott here, and all I want to do is get to Grand Central. And maybe all would be well then. Maybe everything would just go away, and it'd be only the two of us, safe inside a void in time and space, on a beach where it is forever sunset.

  But there's Sarah to consider now, and over a month of silence, along with the lies I told when I left. And I'll have even less of a heart to offer him after I let Sarah go. I can't be a mom, not now when there's only a black-scabbed wound where my heart used to be. Never, because I can't risk the wound tearing open ever again.

  My eyes burn and it takes me a moment to realize I'm on the verge of tears. I haven't cried since the morning my mom died.

  "You should park in a garage," I tell Phillipa, trying to chase away all other thoughts.

  "I was just going to park in the street," Phillipa muses.

  I shake my head. "Not a good idea. It'll be dark soon, and your car could get stolen. My friend's was, just a few days ago, and right around here somewhere."

  Kate was frantic when she called me on Wednesday night. She'd just popped into Macy's for a new pair of shoes and maybe a dress, and her car was gone when she returned.

  "That's awful," Phillipa says, and circles back to the nearest garage.

  "Yeah, a new Lexus, with finger print security, and the cops aren't doing very much to find it," I say, echoing Kate's words. "Apparently, it's straight to the harbor and onto a ship to who knows where, within an hour for any car stolen around here."

  "No chance of getting it back?" Phillipa says.

  "Very little."

  I'm sorry now for not being more compassionate with Kate when she called me about it. But all I kept thinking of was whether I should tell her about baby Sarah. Only I couldn't, because the fewer people that know the better. I can't be branded a murderer for life in everyone's eyes.

  Phillipa's cousin is already waiting for us in front of Macy's. Her long hair is perfectly straight and so blonde it's almost white. She smells like the perfume section on the other side of the revolving doors, and her fingers are gleaming with rings.

  "Nice to meet you, Gail. I'm Greta," she says, and squeezes my hand hard, her rings digging into my fingers.

  "So, you want to go in?" I ask, pointing back at the store.

  The city is whooshing past me, sirens blaring and people yelling. Only today it's not filling me with hopeful excitement. It's only making my anxiety grow deeper and darker.

  Greta points to the Victoria's Secret store across the street. "How about we start there then see if we feel like any more shopping after that. I have my driver waiting to take us to dinner at a moment's notice."

  The last thing I want to do is try on bras, but I also don't much want to shop for clothes either. Grand Central is less than ten blocks away, and a part of me is already sitting on the train. But I do nothing to make the vision a reality. Instead I follow Phillipa and Greta around the store, picking up a bra here and there, and listen to their hurried, heavily accented conversation. I don't even understand all they're saying; they're talking so fast.

  I settle in the lounge and sleepwear section, while they take an armload of bras each into the fitting rooms.

  "I don't believe it. Gail?" a woman screeches, and suddenly Janine is towering over me, her hands on her hips, her eyes shooting flames.

  "Oh, hi," I say, taking a step back. She's wearing a black tag with her name printed on it in white. "I didn't know you worked here."

  "How would you know a thing like that?" Her words are clipped and cutting, but she's not speaking loud enough for anyone else to hear. I want to run from the store.

  "I wouldn't," I say, because she seems to be waiting for an answer.

  "Of course not, the way you just disappeared," she continues, pointing her index finger at my face. She's wearing shimmery colored nail polish, and her nails are sharp enough to scar, if she scratched me. Which I think she might be planning. "And let me just tell you that Scott was very upset. Especially since you lied. And I hate you for it."

  "You can't talk to me like that," I say loudly enough for a few people to turn. "It's none of your business."

  "Of course it's my business. Scott's my friend, and he really doesn't deserve to be treated like that."

  "Well, he can tell me that himself, he doesn't need you for that." This conversation is making me nauseous. All I want to do is go home and hide under the covers. I don't even know why I'm arguing with her. I should just walk away.

  She flips her hair back. "You won't answer his calls, and I'm here now. It was really low of you to lie like that."

  "Like what?" I ask, swallowing back a burning jet of bile that almost reached my mouth.

  "Saying you're in California. Scott was even talking about going out there." The words hit me hard, right in the heart and tears are just behind my eyes now. I can't hear any more of this, or I'll just disappear where I stand, sink right through the floor and be gone.

  "I'm just home for the weekend," I mutter anyway, because I'm deranged and I love the idea of Scott wanting to come visit me in California, even though I'm not even taking his calls.

  "No you're not," Janine shrieks. "A certain Edna, who was nursing your mom is also m
y mom's cousin, and she was quite certain you go to school in Connecticut. Or was she the one lying?"

  I look down at my shoes. "Did you tell Scott?"

  "Of course I told him!" The way she says it makes me sound like a murderer. Which I will be, very soon.

  "Is everything alright here?" Phillipa asks glaring at Janine, then looking at me.

  I nod, my voice stuck somewhere in my throat.

  "Everything is just fine," Janine says with a forced smile, flashing us both with a row of perfectly white teeth glimmering in the soft yellow light. "She just looked like she needed some advice. But she's not very receptive to it."

  And then she turns and disappears into the fitting room.

  "That was rude," Phillipa says. "Do you know her?"

  I lace my fingers together in front of me, squeezing hard, watching the blood drain from my knuckles. "Sort of." I release my hands and look up past Phillipa into the dark fitting room. "I think I'm just going to go back home. This is all too much for me right now."

  "Go?" Phillipa asks. "But we have the whole weekend planned out."

  "I can't—" I start but my voice cracks, because I think maybe I'll burst into tears right here, in the middle of the store.

  Phillipa places her hand around my shoulders. "I understand. Don't feel bad. Would you like to take my car?"

  She reaches into her purse to give me the keys, but I stop her by grabbing her wrist. "No, I'll just take the train. There's one at eight, I think, or a little after."

  She's looking at me like I'm about to fall down or something, and I force a smile. "I'll be fine. I'm sorry to do this, but I just—"

  "Don't worry about it, Gail," Phillipa interrupts. "There's no need to apologize. I'll see you on Sunday?"

  "Yes." I find her hand and squeeze. "Say goodbye to Greta for me?"

  She nods and I rush towards the escalator, because Janine is coming back out of the fitting room, and I absolutely can't face her a second time.

  The noise on the street hits me with a physical force. I could just turn left and be at Grand Central within minutes.