by Sandra Moran
Natalie made a noise that could have meant anything.
“I never wanted to have kids,” she said. “I never wanted that responsibility. I don’t want to have to worry about something happening to them.”
“You can’t think of it like that,” I said, knowing she was thinking about Grace.
“Can’t I?” I felt her rage and her sadness, but I had nothing to offer, had no advice.
“So, what are you going to do?” I asked again.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Listen, I should let you go. I know I called you, but I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
I felt as if I had been given some sort of test and been found lacking. I wanted to say something—anything—that would help. “Listen, finals are over in a couple of weeks. When I’m back on winter break, we can figure this out—just like old times. We’ll come up with a plan.”
“Birdie, I’m almost three months along,” Natalie said. “I can’t wait much longer. I’m starting to show.”
“So?”
“So, I need to do something quickly.”
“We all had so many dreams,” she said softly. “You, me, and Grace. And look at us now.” She laughed humorlessly. “Grace’s dead, you’re a recluse, and I’m knocked up.”
The truth of her words stung.
“Just, don’t make any decisions, okay?”
She was quiet again and I could hear her breath, soft and irregular. She sniffed and I realized she was crying again.
“Okay,” she said finally. “I’m gonna go now. I’ll see you when you get home.”
Before I could reply, she hung up.
I left for Edenbridge around 8 a.m., the day after my last final. I had spent the previous evening with Adelle, who was also going home for the break, and Roger, who had plans to stay in Lincoln and go out with his friends. My pace was slow, both because of the snow and because the tires on the ancient Buick my father had purchased for me the year before, were bald.
When I finally pulled into Edenbridge, it was with both relief and dread. After the hustle and bustle of Lincoln, Edenbridge seemed small and dead, despite the Christmas decorations and lights. It was as if time had stood still. The Mercantile still stood on the corner of the street, its façade faded and badly in need of paint. The sidewalks down the main streets had been shoveled and sanded so well that you could see the warped and broken sections. Randy—with the same oily rag hanging limply from the back pocket of his filthy, insulated coveralls—still manned the antiquated pumps of the gas station.
I sighed as I pulled the Buick into the driveway, put it into park, and turned off the ignition. You can do this, I told myself as I hauled my suitcase out of the trunk and trudged up the back walkway to the kitchen door. Tara greeted me as I used my key to let myself in and explained that our mother was at the nursing home where Granny had just recently been relocated.
I walked down the hallway and opened the door to my room. Nothing had changed. The shelves still housed my collection of books, rocks, and high school memorabilia. On the walls were all my old posters, including my one-time favorite of a kitten dangling from a branch with the words, Hang in there, Baby printed in big, happy letters at the bottom. The corners were thick with yellowed tape and riddled with holes from countless thumbtacks.
“It’s like you never left.”
I turned to see Tara leaning against the door frame. She was dressed in faded Levi’s and an old Edenbridge Blue Jays T-shirt. At almost sixteen, she was a beautiful young woman and I envied her, not just because she was so attractive, but also because she was confident, popular, and genuinely comfortable with herself.
“Yeah,” I said finally and brushed a lock of hair back behind my ear.
“Mom wants you to feel comfortable coming home,” she said. “You know, like you can go away, but your things will always be here—that things will always be the same.”
She stepped into the room and went to sit on the edge of the bed. Despite the cold outside, she was barefoot, and I noticed that her toenails were painted a perky pink.
“It’s good to have you home, Bird.” She paused and then began to pick at one of the stitches on the quilt draped across the foot of the bed.
“So, what’s up with Granny?”
She pursed her lips and shrugged. “She’s not adjusting well to the nursing home. She’s convinced we’re all trying to kill her. She refuses to eat anything she doesn’t cook herself in her room and she’s started hiding food under her bed. She doesn’t want to shower because she thinks they’re like the ones at Auschwitz.”
“And people think I have problems,” I said under my breath.
“What?”
I shook my head and she continued. “She thinks Gramps is still alive and is talking to her. She has whole conversations with him, but there’s no one there.”
I felt Grace stir in the back of my head and took a deep breath. I moved to sit next to Tara on the bed and she turned her body to face me, pulling her knees up under her chin.
“I’m just telling you ahead of time so that when Mom takes you to see her, you won’t be too shocked. She’s really gone downhill.”
I nodded and made a note to avoid seeing my grandmother if at all possible. The thought of her mental state worried me—not just for her sake, but for my own. I closed my eyes and tried to push thoughts of hereditary insanity out of my mind. Tara leaned forward and lightly touched my arm.
“You okay?”
I nodded. “Just a headache from the drive.” I gestured limply at nothing and she nodded.
“Want some Tylenol?”
I shook my head. “I just need to lie down for a little bit and then call Natalie.”
Tara took the cue. “I’ll let you unpack.” She slid gracefully off the bed and walked to the door. Just before leaving, she paused and turned to look at me. “It’s nice to have you home, Bird.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I love you.”
I blinked and felt my throat tighten with emotion. I swallowed and opened my mouth to tell her I loved her, too, but the words seemed stuck. I inhaled deeply and tried again to speak. My voice still failed me.
“It’s okay,” she said as she turned to walk out of the room. “You don’t have to say it, I know.”
I didn’t get a chance to see Natalie for several days. Christmas preparations and family obligations on both of our parts made it impossible to meet until the afternoon of Christmas Eve. Her mother was napping and we were in her bedroom. Unlike mine, the décor of her room had changed. Gone were the posters and high school memorabilia, replaced with framed posters of Rome, Egypt, and Paris.
“I’ve decided to marry Pete,” she said without preamble as she settled on the foot of the bed and curled her legs up under her. Outside, the snow was falling in large, wet flakes. Cups of cocoa that were too hot to drink sat on the bedside table.
“Nat, no,” I said quickly. “I thought we were going to talk about it.”
“I’ve already said yes,” she said numbly. “I pretty much made up my mind right after we talked. We’re going to have a simple wedding next month—just family and close friends.”
I stared at her.
“It’s the best decision,” Natalie said resolutely. “He’s a good man, he’ll provide for me and the baby, and when he or she goes to school, I can start taking classes at the community college.”
“But—” I began.
“I’m not giving up anything,” she said defensively. “I’ll still pursue my dreams—just later.”
We sat in silence for what seemed like forever.
“I’d like you to be my maid of honor,” she said finally.
“Of course,” I said quickly. “Just let me know when and I’ll—”
“It’s January 15,” she said.
“Oh,” I said simply.
“We had to move fast,” she said. “You know.” She gestured at her belly, which looked only slightly more rounded than it usually did. “The bachelorette party is go
ing to be on the 13th.”
“So soon,” I murmured.
“I need to do it before I change my mind,” Natalie said.
I nodded, understanding suddenly the real urgency. The look of resignation on her face made my heart ache in sympathy.
“Poor Natalie.” It was Grace. “I know,” I said aloud, an answer to both of their statements.
Natalie’s was the first and only bachelorette party I ever attended. I hadn’t been sure what to expect, although I had seen enough movies to have an idea what it would be like. The evening started when I picked up Natalie at her mother’s house. The party was to start in Winston at a bar called Jacob’s Ladder.
“Strange name for a bar,” I said as we pulled onto the highway and headed toward the city.
“I haven’t been there,” she admitted. “Peggy suggested it.”
“Ah.”
Peggy Norton was a girl who had been in our class and who, after I had gone away to college, had taken my place as Natalie’s confidante. She was one of the bridesmaids, I quickly learned, in addition to Pete’s two sisters, Sissy and Barbara, who were five and six years older than we were.
“You’ll like them,” Natalie had reassured me over the phone when we were talking about the agenda for the weekend. “Barbara and Sissy are nice—a little white trash, but nice.”
“I don’t know, Nat,” I’d hedged. “You know how I am in social situations.”
“I know,” Natalie had said. “But this is my bachelorette party. It’s my second-to-last night as a single woman. I want you there. Please, Birdie. It’s important to me.”
And so I agreed to go out, agreed to be social, and agreed to be nice to Peggy. But as we walked into the bar and I saw her sitting with two women who looked vaguely familiar, I began to doubt my ability to fulfill my third promise. Peggy hadn’t changed much since we were in high school together. We smiled vaguely at each other rather than hugging.
“Birdie,” Natalie said after she greeted the three women. “This is Sissy and this is Barbara.”
“Hi,” I said with forced enthusiasm and tried to smile.
“Well, hello, Birdie,” Sissy said with a look in Peggy’s direction. “We’ve heard a lot about you.” Peggy smiled, but said nothing. I shrugged and gave them a weak smile.
“Well, here I am,” I said and spread my arms in a theatrical gesture. “In the flesh.”
“Birdie,” Peggy said with a quick nod. It was a recognition, greeting, and a dismissal all at the same time. I nodded tightly in return. Natalie watched the exchange, sighed, and then clapped her hands together. “So, let’s get this party started.” Her words were met with whoops and exaggerated squeals from Sissy and Barbara.
“This is going to be a night you will remember forever,” Sissy promised as she looked around me and signaled for the waitress.
“We’d like a round of shots,” Sissy said to the server, who looked as if there was nothing she hadn’t seen or heard before. “Let’s start with Sex on the Beach.” Sissy nudged Barbara and raised her eyebrows suggestively. Though I didn’t find it funny, I forced myself to laugh with the rest of the women.
“To Natalie,” Sissy said when the drinks arrived. We all dutifully held up our shot glasses in a toast.
“To Natalie,” we echoed. The drink was sweet and warm as it ran down my throat and into my empty stomach.
“Thank you, ladies,” Natalie said as she raised her glass of soda water with a lime.
“Too bad you can’t drink,” Barbara said.
“It is,” Sissy agreed. “I guess we’ll just have to do it for you.” She signaled to the waitress. “A round of Slippery Nipples. Or—no, make it B-52s.”
The waitress nodded and disappeared in the direction of the bar.
“So, are you excited?” Barbara asked. “Just a couple of days and then you’ll be Mrs. Peter Wade.”
“Love it,” Sissy said and belted out another raucous “whoo hoo.” I realized, suddenly, that they had been drinking before we had arrived. I looked up and caught Natalie’s gaze. She smiled tightly.
“So, Birdie,” Peggy said suddenly. “Tell us what you’ve been up to?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I said. “School.”
“Um,” she said. “And are you seeing anyone?” She asked this last question with a touch of venom.
“Not really,” I said, trying to adopt the same level of spite. “I don’t have much time. Getting my degree keeps me pretty busy. But what about you? How are Ned and Abigail?”
Peggy I knew, had gone to college long enough to find a husband and get married. Abigail, I knew, had arrived almost exactly nine months after the wedding.
“Wonderful,” she said and launched into a long description of her perfect husband, her perfect daughter, and her perfect life. Although I stopped listening after she uttered the word wonderful, for a third time, I tried to nod and make the appropriate noises at the appropriate times. Finally, she was interrupted by Sissy.
“Let’s have one more round and then get out of here,” she said. “There’s a dance bar not far from here and I don’t know about you girls, but I want to boogie!” She giggled.
The round, which turned out to be something called a Jolly Rancher, was placed in front of me.
“To Natalie’s last two nights of freedom,” Barbara said. We raised our glasses, though I didn’t drink. Barbara noticed this and said, “Birdie, you have to drink. It’s bad luck if you don’t.”
“I just haven’t really eaten much,” I said apologetically. “I need to pace myself.”
“All the better,” Sissy said and waited expectantly.
“You don’t have to, Birdie,” Natalie said and turned to Sissy. “She doesn’t have to.”
“No,” I said suddenly, “It’s fine. I want to.”
I raised the glass to my lips and tipped it so the liquid poured into my mouth. It really did taste like a watermelon Jolly Rancher.
“Whoo hoo,” Sissy and Barbara squealed in unison. “So, let’s get out of here. The limo is waiting outside.”
I felt the effects of the alcohol as soon as I stood. Carefully, I made my way to the entrance and then into the back of the limo Sissy had hired for the occasion. I said little and even put on the feathered boa she handed each of us. I laughed at Natalie’s tiara. I forced myself to relax and thankfully, the next several hours passed in a blur of bars, unnaturally colored drinks, and too loud chatter. I had tried to stop drinking after the first bar, but was unable to convince Sissy and Barbara that I had had enough. I was more than a little drunk when we ended up at the final destination—a biker bar on the edge of town that Sissy thought would be “a hoot” to go to.
From the minute we entered the Jet Lag Lounge, I knew that the five of us in our party clothes and feather boas didn’t belong among the denim and leather-clad bikers. Classic rock pounded out of the juke box and a cluster of bearded, tattooed men stopped playing pool long enough to watch our entrance. Drunk and undaunted, Sissy tottered up to the bar and ordered a round of drinks. Several of the men ogled her backside as she passed.
In my head, I could feel Grace stir. She was uncomfortable with our surroundings.
“Natalie, I’m not so sure—” I began, my words slurred and mumbled.
“I know,” she said. “Me, too. Don’t worry. We’ll have one drink and then leave.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I think I’ve had too much already.”
She nodded and stepped toward the bar.
“Last one for the night,” she said as she accepted her soda water with lime.
“Party pooper,” Barbara pouted.
“That’s me,” Natalie said. ‘You forget, I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”
“All right,” Sissy grumbled. “Last one.” She handed a shot—straight whiskey this time—to Peggy and then one to me.
“I can’t,” I said, stepping unsteadily backward, the whiskey sloshing out of the glass and onto my fingers. “I’ve had too much.”
I looked blurrily around for a bathroom.
Natalie looked concerned.
“You okay?” she asked.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I said thickly. I could hear how drunk I was.
“Do you need me to go with you?” she asked.
“No,” I said and gestured toward the back of the bar. “I think it’s back there.”
I turned and wove unsteadily toward the back of the bar. Several of the bikers watched me with curiosity. Others leered.
“Get a load of this one,” I heard one man say. His friends laughed loudly.
“Looking for the bathroom?”
The voice was kind and I turned slightly to look up at him. His face was deeply tanned, his hair and mustache almost black in the dim light. A black T-shirt with an elaborate, fierce-looking eagle was stretched over his large belly and tucked into worn blue jeans that were cinched with a thick black leather belt.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” I said.
“Follow me,” he said and led me through clusters of patrons to the back of the bar where he pointed to a door with the word “Bitches” scrawled on the front in spray paint.
“Thanks,” I said and stumbled forward. Despite my nausea, I was appalled at the filthiness of the room and recoiled from the thought of actually vomiting into the stool. I was considering the possibility of making it outside when my stomach rebelled. I crouched in front of the stool, making sure not to touch it, and vomited up the yeasty, sour contents of my stomach. Once the first wave passed, I stared numbly into the toilet, my face slick with sweat. I breathed heavily and waited for the second round. When nothing but stomach bile came up, I used my elbow to flush and then pulled myself to my feet. I felt better.
The man who helped me to the bathroom was waiting outside.
“I was beginning to worry,” he said and tipped his head downward to look into my eyes. “Had a little too much tonight?”
I nodded.
“Way too much,” I admitted. “And no food.”
“Been there,” he said, still studying me. His gaze was disconcerting and I began to feel uncomfortable. I could hear Sissy up at the bar, shrieking in laughter. The man glanced in their direction. “So, what exactly are you girls doing in a place like this?”
