It had been so humid that night. Hot and still. Chelsea had gone to Mikey’s on her way home from the Lucky Lady. She’d been about to cross the street when she’d accidentally dropped the money her father had given her for cigarettes and a carton of milk, and bent down to pick it up. That’s when she’d heard a noise that cut through the quiet night air with a piercing ferocity. A gunshot. As Chelsea had bolted upright, she’d seen a lean man run out of Mikey’s store with a plastic bag in his clenched, gloved fist. It had been hard to see clearly but she was sure he had a pistol in his other hand. She’d watched, breathless, as the man in a gray hoodie and black jeans peeled off his ski mask and looked around frantically. She’d recognized him instantly. There hadn’t been a shred of doubt in her mind who it was. Greg. The brother of a girl—Lauren—she’d gone to school with since eighth grade. Greg was several years older than they were, but she’d seen him plenty of times around the neighborhood and at parties, and had even spoken to him once or twice. Until now, she’d never thought much of him other than that he came off a bit full of himself and she had no desire to spend much time with him. When she saw Greg’s angular face come out from under that mask, Chelsea had gasped, the gunshot still ringing in her ears.
A moment later, a black car with polished rims and tinted windows had pulled up, Greg hopped in, and the driver sped off. Still reeling, Chelsea had watched it disappear around the corner, rooted to the ground until all she could hear was the fading roar of the engine, and finally that was gone too. Silence. Thick, heavy silence.
Oh my god! Mikey! Chelsea’s instincts had kicked in at lightning speed. She’d raced across the street and burst into the store. At first the place looked empty. Where is he? Please don’t let him be dead! Just the possibility of finding Mikey dead had stopped Chelsea in her tracks. Then she’d heard a groan. A groan! He was alive! She’d slid around the counter and stopped as the tips of her boots had met with a pool of blood. Mikey was lying on the floor, his hand weakly covering his hip where a dark, circular stain was growing. He’d looked up at her, desperate. His eye was red, his cheek cut open and bleeding.
“No!” she remembered screaming.
“He shot me,” Mikey had struggled to speak, still covering the hole in his leg with his hands. Eyes stinging with tears, Chelsea’d forced herself to look away—to look for her phone. She’d felt for her pocket, it wasn’t there. Where was it? She’d just had it a few moments ago. Spotting the worn handset for the cordless on the counter next to the empty cash register, she’d carefully stepped over Mikey, snatched it up, and punched out 911. God, there’s so much blood, she’d thought. She’d needed to do something to slow the bleeding or he wouldn’t last long enough for the paramedics to get there.
As Chelsea waited for the dispatcher to pick up, she’d looked back down at Mikey. The pool of blood beneath his lower body was growing. She’d run through the store, past a toppled candy display, and grabbed the first thing she’d seen that could help stop the bleeding—a kitchen towel. It had a turtle in a chef’s hat printed on it, and when she’d pressed the towel over Mikey’s pants and the hole in his hip underneath, the turtle turned crimson.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” Finally.
“Yes, I’m at Mikey’s Market on Sixteenth Street. It just got robbed and the owner’s been shot.” The words had flowed out of Chelsea without hesitation. Even in the midst of crisis, Chelsea had a way of staying calm and cool.
“Is he breathing?”
“Yeah, it looks like he was just hit in the leg or the hip. I can’t tell. But he’s bleeding bad.”
“I’m dispatching an ambulance. Did you see who robbed the store?” the dispatcher had asked. His voice was monotone, emotionless.
“Yes. I know him! His name’s Greg Foster and he got into a black car with someone else driving. They turned right onto Bartels Avenue.” Mikey’d moaned again, but Chelsea continued to press the towel against his leg. She’d looked down when she felt something sticky, and realized the blood had started to seep through her fingers.
“The ambulance is coming. You’re gonna be okay.” Chelsea had tried to hide her fear that Mikey’s life may end right there. She’d set the phone down and placed her right hand over her left, putting more pressure on the towel.
A loud honk jolted Chelsea from her reverie. Two obnoxious guys in a car laughed as they passed, thrilled that they could scare her into jumping.
“Nice ass, baby!” one of them yelled as the car sped off down the street. Rattled more by the memory of Mikey than the harassment, Chelsea suddenly felt alone again. Eager to hear a familiar voice, one that would assure her that everything would be okay, Chelsea pulled out her phone and composed a text to Jeff: Hey. You around? Can you please call me?
By the time Chelsea stuffed her house key into the lock on the front door, ten minutes later, Jeff had still not responded. She went inside. It wasn’t much but it was familiar. She tossed her father’s carton of cigarettes onto the little round table for two that separated the kitchen from the living room, and locked the front door. She considered bolting the chain as well, but decided not to. Hopefully, her father would be home soon from his night out, and she didn’t want him to be locked out.
She thought getting inside would make her feel more at ease, but it didn’t. She wondered how she’d ever feel safe again now that Greg would be free to go wherever he wanted. Had he forgiven her for testifying against him? Would he come after her?
Chelsea went from room to room turning on the lights. There were only four windows in the trailer: one in her room, her dad’s room, the kitchen, and the living room. She checked to be sure they were all secured. They were, but seeing how flimsy the locks were only made her feel more anxious.
You have at least a week before you need to be scared, she told herself. A week. Tonight, Greg was behind bars. Tonight, she didn’t have to worry.
Chelsea opened the fridge and pulled out a half-eaten tuna melt she’d made the day before. Popping it into the microwave, she watched it slowly rotate around. Just like my relationship with Jeff, she thought. Around and around, going nowhere. When the cheese began to bubble and drip down the sides, Chelsea pulled the plate from the microwave, and checked her phone once more, hoping that Jeff had responded.
Instead, her text went unanswered.
Chelsea took a bite of her sandwich as she sank back on the battered gingham sofa and kicked off her shoes. Deep down, she knew why Jeff wasn’t texting her back. He was probably with his wife. Whenever he didn’t text back right away, that was the reason. Chelsea flipped on the TV, trying to distract herself from thinking about the man she loved sitting across from another woman. She pictured his strong jaw and thick build. He looked so sophisticated—like a man, not the pimply faced little boys who went to her old high school. He was confident and mature and, unlike her father, polished. She loved how he looked in a suit and tie, and how his fingernails were always perfectly clean.
The image of Jeff sitting across the table from his wife as they sipped wine and chatted about their workdays sent a pang of jealousy through her. She had never seen his wife, not even a photo of her, but Chelsea imagined she was stylish and beautiful. Not to mention educated and refined. The only thing Chelsea knew about her was that she was a veterinarian who worked long hours and made good money. Maybe they aren’t having a good time, Chelsea hoped. According to Jeff, there were no laughter-filled dinners with his wife and there hadn’t been for a long time. Jeff’s wife had some big-time sports-agent boyfriend in Manhattan who Jeff pretended he didn’t know about. The guy had a private plane and was always whisking her off to New York for long weekends when she wasn’t busy working. Jeff had been lamenting about it just last week over dinner.
“It’s disgusting,” he’d said as he slid his fork into his risotto. “She talks to him on the phone right in front of me, acting like it’s one of her girlfriends. I could do the same, you know. I could flaunt you in her face but I don’t. Out of respect
.”
Chelsea’d studied him as he took another bite. “She still doesn’t know about me?” She tried to keep the tone light, but she was pretty sure she hadn’t. She couldn’t help it. There was no way to ask without it sounding naggy, at least to Jeff.
“No. I told you. My lawyer said to keep it under wraps and act like everything’s fine until it’s time to drop the bomb and serve the papers.”
Chelsea’d picked at her seafood linguine, wondering what she should say next. It had been at least a month since she’d asked the question and this was the same answer she received then: the lawyer’s advice reigned supreme.
“I just, I don’t know . . .” she had said, talking through her thoughts.
“You just what?”
“I just hate being your dirty little secret.”
“You’re not that,” he’d assured her, and ran his fingers through his short brown hair. It was something he tended to do when he was frustrated. “Things are going to be much better for both of us if I maintain leverage in this divorce. There’s a lot at stake and it’s complicated. Assets, pensions, intellectual property. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the foresight to get a prenup. If I had, this would already be over.”
Chelsea’d nodded and sat back in the plush chair. She’d looked around at the other couples speaking softly to each other, gossiping, sharing desserts, sipping champagne as they celebrated whatever good thing had just happened in their lives. Jeff must’ve noticed because he’d looked around as well, seemingly curious about what had caught her attention.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’m here with you and I want to focus on us. You have no idea how much I look forward to seeing you. You look beautiful tonight, by the way.”
Chelsea’d smiled and looked down at the simple black dress she had on. She’d found it last year at the Goodwill store tucked behind some sundresses on the rack. It wasn’t a designer brand, but it might as well have been. It was sleek and classy, and after shortening the spaghetti straps a little, it fit her perfectly, hugging her body in all the right places. It was the only decent dress she had and she’d worn it out with Jeff before. Each time she put it on, she did something a little different—either added a jacket or a scarf or some jewelry, hoping to disguise it. That night, she’d slipped one of her mother’s old silk blouses over it. The green one that matched her eyes.
“I love you. And your patience means a lot to me. Someday soon, this will all be over and we can operate like a normal couple.” Jeff’d squeezed her hand, making a point of rubbing his thumb over her slim ring finger. “There’s something missing, but it won’t be forever.” Chelsea had known he meant a wedding ring, and hearing him say it made her feel good about them as a couple. It was so easy to let self-doubt creep in, and it helped when he reminded her of his intentions to be with her forever.
The show on television ended and Chelsea realized she’d been so busy thinking about Jeff, she didn’t even know what she’d been watching. Her sandwich sat, half eaten, on the plate, now cold. She glanced at her phone. After eleven. Still no response from Jeff. She needed something to occupy her mind and decided to iron her uniforms for work. It needed to be done anyway.
Chelsea set up the ironing board to waist-height and plugged in the iron. They were the same ones her mother had used, a wedding gift she and Chelsea’s father had received from some family member. Chelsea couldn’t remember who. Little things like that came up often and that’s when she missed her mother the most. Chelsea would think of things she wished she could ask her. Silly things that might have seemed unimportant except that when her mother died, the answers died with her.
Pulling one of several pink shirts sporting the Stella Luna Gelato Shop logo from the flimsy plastic laundry basket, Chelsea stretched it across the board and set the heavy soleplate of the iron down right there in the middle. An image of her mother, a pretty woman with the same striking red hair as Chelsea, ironing at the same ironing board as she watched The Bold and the Beautiful, flooded Chelsea’s mind.
Suddenly, the memory faded. Then everything faded. Chelsea stepped back as her vision turned black. Her knees buckled beneath her. The hot iron slipped from her hand and fell to the floor as her eyes rolled up and back. Chelsea grabbed for anything she could, clenching her pink shirt. In moments, Chelsea lost consciousness and crumpled to the floor.
Three
Good Things Come in Small Packages
Chelsea opened her eyes and realized she was staring at the dingy white ceiling. The stout smell of singed linoleum hung heavy in the air.
Chelsea sat up and looked around. Why was she on the ground? What had happened? How long was she unconscious? “Dad?” she called out meekly. No answer.
The iron sat a few feet away. Its timer had shut it off, but not before it melted a four-inch gash into the floor.
I must’ve fainted, she concluded, not sure what else would cause her to forget how she’d gotten onto her back on the floor. Chelsea grabbed the still-warm iron and climbed to her feet. She spotted her phone: 11:29 p.m. No calls or texts. I must’ve been out for, what, five, ten minutes? She looked down at her elbows. Was she bruised? Had she gotten hurt? She rubbed her fingers over them but didn’t feel any pain. Chelsea drew her knees up to her chest, trying to decide if she felt pain anywhere else. No. As far as she could tell, she was perfectly fine.
Using the chair to steady herself, Chelsea climbed to her feet. She plucked the iron up off the floor and ran her toe over the disfigured linoleum. What happened? She wondered if she’d been so upset about the news of Greg Foster’s release that she passed out. Don’t think about any of this any more tonight, she told herself. Forget about Greg and Jeff and sweet old Mikey who has needed a cane ever since he was shot in the hip. Go to sleep. It will all be there in the morning. Tossing her work shirt back into the basket, she unplugged the iron and went to bed.
The ring of Chelsea’s cell phone cut through the silence, waking her from a restless sleep. Her heart skipped a beat as she reached across the nightstand and fumbled to pick it up. It was almost three a.m. Jeff was calling.
“Hey,” she answered, trying to make her voice sound like she’d been awake.
“Sorry it took so long to call.” Jeff’s voice was deep and soothing. “How are you?”
“I’m okay, I guess. I got really light-headed earlier and fainted.” She didn’t want to come across as being overly dramatic, so she kept her tone casual.
There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. “That could be something serious. I think you should take the day off from work tomorrow and go see a doctor.” His tone was sensitive, caring, but also firm. Although Chelsea agreed with his advice, she knew that wasn’t an option. Her father had been between jobs for the past two months and he’d let their health insurance lapse. He’d explained that he’d get it again when he could afford to pay the premium but it was important that she not go to the doctor. Otherwise, he’d be on the hook for the bill, which could be really expensive.
“Maybe. . . .” She said it to pacify him. “When can I see you? I miss you so much.” What Chelsea really needed right then was to lose herself in Jeff’s embrace and rest her head on his warm chest as he stroked her hair. She loved that feeling. In those moments, lying next to him in a comfy hotel bed, she felt safe. She could shut out the rest of the world and all the problems in it, and just be.
“I miss you too. How about I get us a room tomorrow night? At the Randall Garden Inn downtown? We’ll order room service, cuddle up with a movie . . .” Yes. Yes, yes, and yes.
“Sure. What time?” she asked, wishing he’d come pick her up at that very moment.
“I won’t get there till after five but you can check in right after you get off work at three.” Chelsea smiled, feeling somewhat relieved.
“Okay. That sounds good.”
“I love you,” he said softly.
“I love you too. See you tomorrow.” Chelsea ended the call. More relaxed now, she
snuggled back into bed and closed her eyes. Like she did so often when she was going to sleep, Chelsea imagined what it would be like if her mother were still alive. She pictured her happy and healthy, sitting in a café on Königsallee, a boulevard Chelsea had seen in her mother’s pictures of Düsseldorf, loaded down with shopping bags from stores like Bulgari and Gucci, sampling rich chocolates. Perched on a park bench near the canal, Chelsea imagined sitting next to her, laughing with her mom and gushing about her upcoming wedding to Jeff. They would toss bread to the ducks that would gather around their feet. Her mother beamed and laughed and tried to throw her crusts of bread to the duck way in the back. It was a nice scene, calming, even if it only existed in her head. Focusing on shutting everything else out, Chelsea exhaled and tried for at least a few hours of peaceful dreams.
“I propose a toast to my brother and his early release!” Lauren yelled over the music that blared from the speakers mounted to the wall of the garage turned party room, teetering drunkenly on the Formica table that barely held her weight. Lauren was a small girl with a slight build, but what she lacked in size, she made up for in ferocity. Lauren raised her bottle of vodka and the dozen or so party guests who crammed into her garage did the same. Wrapping her hand around her frizzy blond hair, she knocked back a gulp of booze, then she lost her balance and would’ve fallen if Roy hadn’t stepped up and put a hand on her waist. She looked down at him and smiled. Roy smiled back, showing off the gold on his capped tooth.
“Come down off there before you bust your ass,” Roy said with a grin, and extended his hand for Lauren to take. Roy was nice-looking and even though he, like her brother, was five years older than Lauren, he didn’t have any problem flirting with high school girls. Which suited Lauren just fine. She’d hooked up with guys Roy’s age several times before. And she knew Roy was a decent guy. After Greg was carted off to prison, he stopped by often to help out Greg’s baby mama, Amber, giving her things like cash or diapers or other items she needed from time to time. Amber lived with Lauren and her mother, and her mother was so grateful for Roy’s help, she invited him to dinner at least once a week. Lauren liked that he was loyal to her brother and her family. That meant a lot.
Pregnant at 17 Page 2
