Born Again

by Heidi Lowe

  “Maybe something else with Angelina Jolie,” I suggested.

  She raised her eyebrow in that sexy way she did. “Ah, it’s all making sense now. I wondered why you wanted to watch this film. I have competition.”

  I giggled like a child. “What? She’s a great actress,” I said, feigning innocence.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I only have eyes for one person.” With that I drew her into a kiss. “And she’ll never have competition.”

  Once we’d finished smooching, she went to open a bottle of wine, and returned with two glasses.

  “I think her family’s awesome,” I went on, sipping my wine. “All those kids she adopted, I love that.”

  Naomi said nothing, just carried on drinking, flicking through the channels with the remote.

  “I want that. A house full of kids, a small army of them. Where everyone loves each other, and no one’s afraid.”

  She looked at me, her expression unreadable, then turned back to the screen.

  “Do you want kids?” I knew I was poking a bear with my question, but I also knew that she was keeping something from me.

  “No,” she said stiffly.

  I was taken aback, to say the least. With everything: her answer, the swiftness with which she gave it, and her overall change in demeanor.

  “But I—”

  “You asked me a question, Dakota, and I gave you my answer. Now what do you want to watch?” She was so abrupt, so cold, that there didn’t seem much point moving on as though nothing had happened.

  “Can I ask you another one?” She said nothing, so I continued. “What’s in that room?”

  This was something that had been bugging me since my first visit. There had been times when I’d been tempted to take a peek, but I could never find the courage. I reasoned that if she wanted me to see it, she would show me. Only, in five weeks and multiple visits, she’d neglected to.

  “That’s none of your business.” She switched off the TV, got up. “I’m going to bed. Are you coming or going home?”

  Well that was that. She wasn’t going to tell me, and I wasn’t going home.

  She wouldn’t cuddle me when we settled into bed, and I had to force my arm around her, taking the big spoon position for the first time. Once I was there she didn’t push me away. And she fell asleep a few minutes later.

  I should have left it. Every bone in my body told me to drop it. Go to sleep and forget about it. But the demon in me, the one who liked to screw me over, forced me out of that bed twenty minutes later. It was the demon that led me creeping out of the room and down the hall to the Forbidden Door. It was the demon in me that turned the handle and switched on the light, invading my girlfriend’s privacy and exposing her secret once and for all.

  I gasped, slapped a hand over my mouth. Layers of dust, years of it, covered the surfaces of the furniture. All immaculate, from the crib to the rocking horse. The walls were painted baby blue, the carpet was fluffy and white. A safari animal mobile hung over the crib, still. Large animal decals were stuck to every wall.

  I was in such shock I didn’t hear Naomi behind me.

  “What are you doing in here?” she boomed, almost making me jump out of my skin.

  I spun around to see her standing there, a bloodthirsty look in her eye.

  “I... I—”

  “You just couldn’t let it go, could you?” Her eyes were watery, her voice shaky. “Well now you’ve seen it, you can get the hell out of my house.”

  “No,” I said, perplexed, afraid. I couldn’t leave, not like this. That would have meant the end for us. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Get out!” she shouted.

  I left the room, she closed it behind her, tears streaming down her face.

  “I don’t want you here anymore,” she said, trembling with rage.

  “I’m not leaving,” I shouted back, my own tears falling. She would have to call the cops to escort me out, but there was no way I would go willingly. “If I leave I’m gonna lose you.”

  “You should have thought about that before you went snooping around where you don’t belong.”

  She stormed past me, into her room. I followed her. She sat at the edge of her bed, staring off into space. I stood in the doorway, afraid that if I came any closer she would start screaming at me again.

  She sniffled, but said nothing.

  I watched her, aching to hold her in my arms, kiss away the pain, just as she had done to me. But I knew my attempt would be met with resistance. So I hung back and waited for her to speak, however long it took.

  “He never got to sleep in it. He never left the hospital,” she said after some time, her voice croaky, filled with tears.

  “Who?”

  “My son.” Tears began to fall again. “Rory. He would be nine.”

  “What happened?” I risked sitting beside her.

  “He was so tiny. Two months premature. I got to hold him once in the six weeks of his life. The rest of the time he stayed in the incubator. I could only watch from a distance.” She looked up to the ceiling, as though trying to stop the tears from falling. “Six weeks. More than the doctors gave him. He was a little fighter.”

  I put an arm around her when I was sure she would accept it.

  “Did you have complications during your pregnancy?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t give birth to him. My ex-fiancée did. It should have been me, but I trusted her when she told me she was clean. Turns out she’d been using heroin all throughout the pregnancy.”

  I kissed her face as she wept.

  “I should have seen the signs that she was using again. But I was so caught up in my job, trying to climb the ladder, that... that...” She couldn’t finish.

  I wanted to soothe her with words, but I had none. The revelation that she’d been a mother was hard to comprehend on its own, without the shocking discovery about her ex. Junkies, the scourge of the Earth, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. Junkies had almost cost me my life, had destroyed my childhood, were the reason I’d spent months in therapy as a teenager. And now, they’d left a hole in my girlfriend’s heart that had turned her cold, had turned her into The Glacier Queen.

  “I’m sorry,” I breathed, hugging her limp body. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I’m sorry I went into his room.”

  She let me hug her, and after a while her body became less limp and more receptive. After a while her arms were around me too.

  “I was going to tell you, I just didn’t know when. I don’t like talking about it.”

  She let go of me. Got up, opened the bottom drawer of her bedside table, pulled out a framed picture. She sat back down, and I watched the tears pitter-patter onto the glass, onto the picture of the tiniest, sweetest baby boy I’d ever seen.

  “He was adorable,” I said, putting my hand over hers to support her grasp of the picture. She was so weak I thought it might slip from her hands and break. “Why do you keep him hidden away? You should never do that.”

  “Most days I don’t...” Ah, so she’d kept him hidden from me. “And I know how crazy and morbid it is to keep the room like that, but—”

  “It’s not,” I cut in. “It’s sweet. I get it.” I kissed her face. She closed her eyes and received me. I wanted to tell her that I would never jeopardize the life of my child — our child. That one day she would be able to open that door and see happiness in there, not dust and bad memories. That one day the room would be used for the purpose for which it was designed. But I didn’t. Five weeks in, remember? I stopped myself just as I did when I wanted to ask her to marry me on our first date.

  “So now you know me,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Now we know each other.”

  I kissed her, then kissed her again because one kiss was never enough.

  We were still kissing when her door knocked. We looked at each other, startled.

  “I have no idea who that could be,” she said, getting up to answer it.

 
; Moments later I heard mumbling, then Naomi shouting, “Hey!”

  The next thing I saw was Brit at the bedroom door, murder in her eyes.

  Busted!

  SEVENTEEN

  Attempting to lie, to tell her it wasn’t what it looked like, was a pointless endeavor. My presence alone, there, in Naomi’s bedroom, spoke volumes; my semi-nudity drove the point home. Reaching for the duvet to shield myself now was silly, so I didn’t.

  Brit’s scowl could have scorched my skin, my bones. A shiver ran down my spine. She opened her mouth to speak, but in her fury she couldn’t immediately get the words out.

  Naomi appeared behind her. She gave me a regretful look.

  “Brit, I... I’m sorry,” was all I could say. The words sounded so empty, so frivolous, and they didn’t tell the whole story. Yes, I was sorry for hurting her, but I had no remorse when it came to being in love and being given the opportunity to express that with the woman I loved.

  “I came here hoping to talk to Naomi, to see if there might still be a chance,” she started, through gritted teeth. “And whose scooter do I see parked outside? Yeah, the girl who told me she was spending the weekend at her boyfriend’s. Then it all made sense. Your aversion to me dating her, your vagueness about where you’ve been going most evenings...”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “You sat there and watched me cry over her.” Her eyes were narrowed slits of hatred. She shook her head slowly, pointing a rage-filled finger at me. “You sat there and lied to my face, told me you had no idea why she’d broken it off. You spineless, backstabbing bitch!”

  Naomi had to grab her before she lunged at me.

  “That’s enough!” Naomi shouted, getting between us. “Britney, you need to leave.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” I screamed at Brit, warm tears trickling down my cheeks. “I’ve loved her since the day I met her. It was her, the one that made me question everything — my sexuality, my relationship with Colin.”

  This did nothing to appease her.

  “This isn’t about love, this is about you not wanting to see me happy.”

  This hurt more than anything she’d said thus far. “How can you think that? You’re my best friend. I would never—”

  “Well you did!” She looked like a rabid dog, ready to tear into me. If Naomi hadn’t been standing between us, I would have been torn to shreds. I’d seen Brit in a bar fight before — two against one — and both of her opponents ran off screaming, a tooth missing here, a black eye there. She took no prisoners, held no punches. Literally.

  “And what the hell do you know about friendship?” she went on. “This is not what friends do. This is what selfish whores do.” She shoved Naomi away. “You guys are welcome to each other.”

  “Brit,” I called after her, as she thundered from the room. Naomi grabbed me as I tried to go after her. “I—I need to talk to her, get her to understand.”

  “She won’t, baby. Let her go, she needs time.”

  I bawled my eyes out as Naomi cuddled me. My happiness had been so short-lived. I’d expected this. I’d expected it to all come crashing down. I knew it was too good to be true.

  Then suddenly I was angry. I escaped Naomi’s embrace, pushed her away. “Why did you have to start seeing her? This is your fault.”

  Her eyes were sad, remorseful. “I know, and I’m deeply sorry. I fucked up. I wish I could take it back.”

  Even though she was to blame, I couldn’t stay mad at her. After just a few moments, I ran into her arms again so she could hold me and make me feel like everything would be okay. In her embrace the world didn’t seem so bleak. I could pretend that I hadn’t just lost my best friend. For those two nights I could pretend that there was only the present, in her apartment, and that my own apartment didn’t exist. That Brit and her fury wouldn’t be waiting for me when I got home.

  I put off going home until the very last minute. Not just because of Brit, but because Naomi, in a bid to make it up to me, had spoiled me rotten the rest of the night, all day Saturday and Sunday. Breakfast in bed, multiple orgasms, massages, so many kisses I didn’t know what to do with. I’d accepted it all without complaint. For forty-eight hours I’d been a princess.

  Now it was over. We both had lives to get back to — reality to return to, dreaded though it was.

  When I let myself in that Sunday night, I expected to see my things broken, torn or burned; toilet water replacing my apple juice, human feces in my pasta sauce. Granted, I’d never seen her take revenge on anyone, and certainly not in such a dreadful way. Brit wasn’t the vengeful type; she’d never had a reason to be. Things didn’t bother her the way they did most people. She’d call someone a nasty name, curse the ground they walked on, but that was about it. However, I’d never seen her with a broken heart. This state of being, I knew from experience, made a person do crazy things. Who knew what sweet revenge she had planned for me?

  “Brit?” I called out. The place was in darkness, but I could see the light from her room spilling out under the door.

  She didn’t respond. I called again. No response.

  I knocked. “Brit, please can we talk?”

  The sudden sound of loud rap music made me jump. Swearing, aggression, a plethora of “bitches and hoes” drowned out my pleas.

  “Tomorrow then,” I said after a while, realizing that I was getting nowhere. She played rap when she was in a bad mood.

  I climbed into bed once I’d changed, switched off the lamp and settled down to sleep, the bass from the rap music making the walls vibrate. Our neighbors would likely stop by to tell us to keep it down, but that wasn’t my problem. I put on my own headphones and dozed off to an eight-hour YouTube video of the calming sounds of rainfall.

  By the time I woke up the following morning, the bathroom was already occupied. So I had breakfast first, waiting for her to get out so I could get ready for work.

  A bowl of muesli, an apple, a couple slices of toast, two cups of coffee later, and she still hadn’t emerged.

  Five to eight. If she didn’t hurry up I would be late.

  I tapped lightly on the door. “Brit, are you done yet? I need to get ready.”

  No reply, just the sound of the shower running.

  I tutted. This was the second step in the punishment. Loud rap music so I couldn’t sleep, and now making me late for work.

  I knocked harder, louder. Ignored.

  I growled my frustration. Five minutes, that was how much longer I would wait before I kicked down the door and dragged her out of the shower.

  Five minutes passed, then ten, and only at a quarter past eight did she finally emerge. I stood right outside the door, glaring, as she stepped past me, towel wrapped around her glistening body, blonde hair damp, a shit-eating grin across her face.

  “The hot water’s finished,” she said, joy in her voice.

  “Thanks,” I said sarcastically.

  Cold showers. I wasn’t new to them. They’d become commonplace in The House of the Damned, whenever my parents used the gas money to buy alcohol or crystal meth, which they did often.

  It was a mad rush to shower, get dressed, and get into work before nine. I rocked in ten minutes late, thanks to the heavy traffic on the road. Everyone was at the conference table doing the Monday morning briefing.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said, cringing as I sat down. This was the second time I’d been late since the promotion. The first, I’d almost lost my job. Now that I was sleeping with the boss, I wanted to believe I had some kind of protection.

  Naomi, who sat at her regular spot at the head of the table, folded her arms, regarded me with an icy stare. Not the type of look reserved for a girlfriend to whom she’d devoted her whole weekend.

  She stopped speaking, just watched me, prompting the others to look my way. She said nothing for the longest time. I looked around at everyone nervously, then back at her, my eyes questioning. I could feel my cheeks burning up.

  After about a minute
of silence, I could stand it no longer. “Erm, what... what are you—”

  “Well, Miss Adams, seeing as you seem to think you can come in whenever you want, that you make the rules, I thought you might like to take over the briefing.”

  My mouth sprang open. Pure disbelief. She was seriously busting my ass about this, even now, as my girlfriend?

  “I—I was ten minutes late,” I said in a shrill voice of protestation. “I said I was sorry. I don’t want to do the briefing.”

  “Then may I continue?”

  I bowed my head, nodded, feeling small. But, and this was the part that made me bow my head in shame, I had never felt so turned on! There was probably some fucked up psychological reason for it, but in that moment I didn’t care.

  I knew her call would come once I got to my office. She waited fifteen minutes before she made it, demanding that I see her in her office.

  She was sitting on the edge of her desk, as usual, looking vexed and sexy. Her sleeveless turtleneck top wasn’t one I’d seen her wear before. It made her boobs look huge, succulent.

  “You embarrassed me out there just now,” I said once the door was closed. I was determined to maintain my outrage for as long as I could.

  “You shouldn’t have come into my office late.”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes could be the difference between life and death,” she said simply.

  I rolled my eyes. “We’re an ad agency, not a hospital.”

  “And that’s a reason not to take your job seriously?” She wasn’t backing down and neither was I.

  “That’s not what I said! God, you’re impossible.” Were we having our first real argument as a couple? Or was this the weirdest type of foreplay ever? I wasn’t sure anymore.

  She sniffed a laugh. “I’m impossible? Do you know why I’m wearing a turtleneck sweater I absolutely despise?”

  I frowned, no idea where this was going.

  She pulled down the neck, revealing the very painful-looking hickey I’d planted there the night before. A victorious smile crept to my lips. So that was what this was about.