by Zoey Derrick
I look down my body to the bump between my hips. It too is more rounded and softer looking, though my hipbones are still well defined. I gently caress the bump with one hand as I remove the hair tie from my bun with the other, letting my hair cascade down my back.
I turn on the shower, all the way to the hottest setting, and pray. It's warmer than usual, so I jump in, but I barely get my hair washed before the water starts to run cold. I move quickly and hop out. For once in my life I'd love to take a shower that is hot and stays hot for as long as I want.
As I towel off, I notice that I'm moving more gingerly than I used too. I’m a little more cautious in my movements. After I get into my pajamas, I make myself a pb&j with grape jelly and grab the book Dr. Alston gave me. Flipping to the section on week twelve, I start to read by the tiny lamp near my bed.
While reading, I realize that Dr. Alston seems to be spot-on with her assessment of how far along I am. Over the last couple of days my breasts have switched from being painful to feeling heavy, my tiredness seems to be waning slightly, and I'm beginning to feel my energy level rising. I'm also hardly ever hungry. But then again, these days, if I feel hungry, I eat —something I've never done in my life. I'm beginning to wonder how I survived this long.
FIFTEEN
I'm running through our apartment. He's right on my heel, chasing me.
"Abigail, get her!" he says.
"You want her, you get her," my mother shouts from another room.
Suddenly I'm flying backwards. The pain in my scalp surges through my body and I go limp. I’m being dragged backwards by my hair into a room along the hallway. Only it's not a room, it’s a closet. He pulls my hair harder and suddenly I'm spinning around. A hard, heavy hand comes across my face.
My head snaps back, knocking into the jamb of the closet door. I see stars. He grips my arm so hard it burns. I start to cry. He grabs my other arm just as hard. I can feel the veins popping and burning.
"Get your sorry ass in that closet and stay there."
I can’t move because of the grip he has on my arms. Suddenly one of the hands is gone and I can feel him shift his weight. I try to flinch away but his grip tightens further as his hand comes down hard across the same cheek, snapping my head back into the jamb again.
He shoves me roughly into the closet and I stumble, falling to the floor. The door slams shut. Something heavy scrapes along the wall and bumps to rest against the door.
"Now you can't get out."
Panic sets in. I try in vain to open the door. My arms are weak, throbbing from his grip, useless.
"Alright, bitch, you have work to do." His voice comes from down the hall. Then I hear the smack. "Damn it, bitch, get to work."
I start beating on the door, panicked in the dark. I’m hot, I’m alone, and I’m hurt...
My eyes fly open. My heart races, my breathing coming fast and hard. I try to shake the memory, but the adrenaline is still pumping through my veins. It hadn’t been the first time I’d been locked in the closet by one of my mother’s drug dealers or pimps while they beat and fucked her, but on that occasion I’d spent at least three days in that closet before the paramedics finally showed up.
It never made sense to me that she kept going back to those types of men. Did she enjoy the beatings? Get off on them? The thought makes me queasy. Maybe she just didn’t know how to do things any different. Maybe she didn’t know they could be different.
Thank goodness I got away from Riley. Even if I was a little late in realizing the importance of pulling away, I did it. Despite the consequences.
Still trembling, I climb out of bed and head into the bathroom.
When I come out I feel calmer. The clock next to my bed reads nearly eleven in the morning. I yawn and stretch, ignoring the little flutter of panic at exposing my belly, and try to decide what to do first.
It's Saturday, laundry day. I consider skipping it — I still feel unsafe after that dream and laundry means going out in public — but one look around my apartment at the dirty clothes strewn about tells me I don't have much of a choice. I bend down and start stuffing clothes into my laundry bag.
The intercom buzzes. My heart jolts. "Who on earth?"
I push the intercom button. "Who is it?" My voice comes out a little harsher than I intend. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly while a male voice crackles through the intercom.
"My name is Alex. I have a delivery for Vivienne?"
"What is it you're delivering?"
"Groceries," he says back.
What the hell? Do I go downstairs and meet him or stay here and let him up? Not wanting him near my apartment, I tell him, "I'll be right down."
"I was told to bring them up to apartment nine."
Damn it.
Okay, I can let him up and stay behind the door and the chain. It’s not much, but at least if he tries to break down my door, other people might hear.
I buzz him into the building.
After a moment, I can hear someone climbing the stairs. He sounds heavy. My heart starts pounding. He gets closer. Then I hear him take the two steps across the landing to my door.
Knock, knock. "Vivienne, it's Alex."
About now I really wish I had a peephole. I unlock the deadbolts and the knob but leave the chain. I open the door a crack. On the other side is a boy, really, not much taller or bigger than I am, wearing a Cub Foods shirt and carrying a paper bag with the Cub logo on it.
The panic settles a little, but I’m still cautious. "Who sent the groceries?" I ask him.
"A gentleman by the name of Mikah Blake."
I curse under my breath. "Send them back. I don't need them."
"He said you'd say that."
"Well, take them back, then tell him if he insists on my having them, he can deliver them himself."
He chuckles. "He said you'd say something like that too, so he told me to give you this." He slips me a piece of folded paper.
I take it from him, keeping my leg pressed against the door, and open it up. Sure enough, it's Mikah’s handwriting.
Dearest Vivienne,
If you're reading this I know you're protesting my groceries. I send them with Alex here because I am trying hard to not force myself on you. But I want you to have some of these goodies that I know you won't buy yourself. Please accept this gift as an apology for the way things happened at the hospital.
I hope you're well.
-M
The bottom of the letter has his phone number on it, the same one that's on the back of his card.
"Alright, Alex, you can put the bag down."
"I'm supposed to bring it in and put it away."
"Nope. I'll spare you your job by accepting the bag. You can do me the favor of putting it on the floor and going down to the landing."
He nods skeptically and places the bag on the floor. He slowly backs away to the stairs. When he's on the landing, I close the door and unlatch the chain. Then I open it again just wide enough to drag the bag inside. Alex is watching me from the landing.
"Thank you, Alex."
"You're welcome."
I watch for a moment as he heads down the stairs, then I shut my door and look into the bag.
On top is a bag of goldfish crackers. I shakily remove the crackers and my heart flutters a bit. Below them, a bag of Oreo cookies. My tummy rumbles. Moving the cookies aside reveals a square package, wrapped in silver paper, and the top of what looks like a champagne bottle. As I pull out the bottle, I see it is actually sparkling cider. My heart warms to Mikah just a little more. Then I grab the package. I look in the bag to make sure there is nothing else in it, but there is: a container of beautiful, bright red strawberries. As I lift the container, something on the bottom of the bag catches my eye.
It’s a card in a light blue envelope. It says, Open Me 2nd.
"Huh?" I huff.
I look back at the package and decide to save it and the card for later, after laundry, when I'm ready to...
I look at the package again. What on earth did he do? My curiosity gets the better of me.
I pick up the package and shake it, hoping that its rattle will tell me what it is. Silence.
I turn it over and slide my finger underneath the seam. Rip off the paper. I'm looking at a plain black box. I raise an eyebrow at it, like it's going to tell me its secrets if I look at it in just the right way. It just sits there.
Well, only one way to find out, I guess.
SIXTEEN
Underneath the lid is purple tissue paper, and underneath the paper is a silver frame holding a picture. My picture. The missing ultrasound picture. The one where the baby looks like it's waving at me.
Tears fill my eyes, making it hard to read the inscription.
Baby Callahan's First Picture
Friday, October 12, 2012
I raise the picture from its resting place in the box. Beneath the frame is another note.
I'm sorry I took this image from you. I know it was your favorite. I wanted to give you something special.
-M
My heart clenches as I realize that Mikah is quickly becoming more than I realized. Although I'm a little upset that he took the picture without asking, I'm also flattered.
"You're forgiven," I say aloud, and I wipe the tears from my cheeks. I grab the card and rip it open.
On the cover is a single yellow rose on a white background. Next to the rose in an elegant font it says, Thinking of you.
"Why, Mikah? Why me?"
The inside of the card contains a longish note in Mikah's penmanship.
Vivienne,
For reasons I can't explain, I need to be close to you. At least to know you're okay.
I saw something in you that first night that made me think of happier times, times that have long been forgotten.
Seeing your beautiful baby last week made me think about all the things that truly matter in life, and for that I'm grateful.
You give me reason, you give me hope and you give me life. No amount of time will allow me to repay that debt to you, but I'd like the chance to try.
-M
P.S. I know it's not champagne, but I hope you enjoy your cider and strawberries.
P.P.S. Thank you for accepting my gift and for reading my card.
I grab the picture and curl up on my bed, hugging it and sobbing. The picture in the frame is larger than the original. Which makes me wonder where the original is.
As much as I want to accept Mikah into my life, I can't seem to allow it to happen and I don't understand why. I had a panic attack after I kicked him out of my hospital room for crying out loud, but I'm scared.
Despite the fact that he keeps pushing me to accept his help, I'm extremely comfortable around Mikah. Up until now, I’ve only known Riley and the men my mother kept around, so my instinct is to be afraid. But Mikah brings me such comfort. It’s the oddest thing. Somewhere deep down I’m starting to think that not all men can be lumped into the Riley category. Riley stole my innocence and tore up my heart. But Mikah - Mikah seems bound and determined to repair the damage Riley did.
When I smacked him across the cheek, he did nothing more than embrace me, comfort me. He knew instantly what he had done to scare me, and he apologized. Apologized! When I'm the one that hit him!
And in that hospital room, he was nothing but kind and generous. He supported me like no man ever has. He stayed with me and comforted me. He was awed by my baby. And I threw him out. God, I'm such an idiot.
I'm drawn to him, but I can't seem to let myself get close to him. I'm terrified because he gives me so much hope, and I know that if I let my feet float off the ground, I will come crashing back down so hard that I won't recover this time. I'm damaged, I'm broken, and I have permanent scars that not even someone like Mikah can erase.
Maybe Mikah is pure-hearted and has fabulous intentions. He's just picked the one girl on the planet that can't be saved.
SEVENTEEN
On Tuesday I go spend some time with my mom. She’s a little more animated, and it’s kind of nice to see. On my way out I ask the nurse if she’s usually like that - animated.
“No, she pretty much just sits quiet and doesn't say much.”
It makes me feel a little bit better knowing that her level of sedation or animation has nothing to do with me.
I've often wondered if she holds me responsible for how her life turned out. I know that it's stupid to think that way, but sometimes, remembering how she let her men treat me, I wonder if she resented me.
On Wednesday I get to work with about twenty-five minutes to spare. When I step off of the bus, I do a double take, my heart seizing in panic. Across the street, moving away from me, is a skinny man with dirty blond hair who looks a hell of a lot like Riley. I know he’s in jail so it’s stupid to think it could be him, but I scurry quickly into the diner anyway.
Once inside, I see Bartie sitting near the register, his usual spot.
"Hi, Bart," I say. He gets really annoyed if you call him Bartie to his face. He’s about five feet eleven inches and two hundred fifty to three hundred pounds. Garrison's Diner has been owned by his family since the early 1900s and is practically a historic landmark in Minneapolis. It's unfortunate that the neighborhood around the diner has gone to pits, but he still stays in business.
I haven't seen Bartie since before the hospital visit, so I'm a bit disappointed that he's here tonight. It also makes me anxious. He's not normally here when I come in, so I instantly start to think he's going to fire me.
"Vivienne?"
"Yes, sir?"
"How are you feeling?"
I suppress the shock I feel at his question. “Great, thanks. How are you?" I begin walking toward him, but stop about five feet away. Though he’s never really done anything to make me mistrust him, there’s this invisible danger zone around him that sets off my warning bells. Maybe it’s my inexplicable desire to please him. Or maybe it’s the fact that he's quite the grease monkey when it comes to his clothes and hygiene.
"I'm good. You're looking well. You've gained some weight?"
"I think so. I don't own a scale, so I can't say for sure."
He laughs his awful, too-many-cigarettes laugh. "Well, I can see it. Can you come here, please?"
I'm momentarily dumbstruck, and then I manage to make myself move another couple feet toward him.
"What's up, Bart?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
He lowers his voice. "I just wanted to let you know that Laura and I talked yesterday. You know, about last week." Oh no. "I just wanted you to know that you've done a great job working here. As long as you don't make a habit out of it and we can cover your shift, I will never fire you because of being sick."
Release breath. "I don't plan to make it a habit. More than anything, I really like and need this job."
"I know, and I like having you here." He smiles. His front tooth is severely crooked and he is missing two teeth on the bottom.
"I will remember that. Thank you, Bart."
"Good deal. Now, there is a woman in booth fourteen who asked for you by name. Go change your shoes and help her out, okay?"
I nod and head off, wondering who could’ve asked for me. The only women I know that would be in this restaurant claiming to know me are Amanda and Dr. Alston. I turn to look, but I can’t see over the top of the high-backed booth.
I change my shoes quickly, shed my hoodie and tie up my apron. The top of the apron quickly slips below my belly. Initially I think it makes me look huge, but when I look at myself in the mirror, it's not all that noticeable. Which is good, because despite Bartie's claim, I have no doubt that he would be quick to harass me about it. I've heard stories - even from his own son - about some of the things he's done because someone made him mad. I know I can’t hide my pregnancy from him forever.
I can't stop myself from looking at table twelve - Mikah's table - on my way over to the booth next to it. My heart aches at the sight of that empty table, and
I suddenly have this need to see him. To thank him and—
My heart stops and my steps falter. Sitting in the booth I'm heading toward is a black-haired girl I had hoped never to see again - Rebecca!
Fear grips my throat as I consider the possibility that it really was Riley outside after all.
Rebecca is Riley’s wannabe girlfriend. She thinks he's the greatest thing since sliced bread, and I have no doubt Riley cheated on me with her. He was always saying I was lousy in bed and even made a point a few times of telling me that he'd slept with other women. Rebecca, I'm certain, was one of them.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I snap as I approach the table.
"Well, hello to you, too, Vivienne."
"Answer my question," I say through gritted teeth.
"Is that any way to treat a customer?"
"No, but you are no customer."
She turns her head to look at me. I gasp. Her right eye is purple and swollen shut.
"No, I'm not. I came to warn you."
"Warn me. How the hell did you know I was here in the first place?"
"Word gets around."
"That's funny, because there isn’t anybody that knows I'm here."
"Guess again."
This is just damn fantastic. I feel my anxiety level rise dramatically, and I’m suddenly desperate to get her out of here.
"What's your warning?"
It’s taking all the self-control I have to keep from giving her another black eye. Another part of me is debating on whether to run out the back door.
