by CD Reiss
He could have shocked me more. Like if he’d said I was growing a furry tail or a penis. Or if he’d said I was actually the love child of Whoopi Goldberg and Bruce Lee.
“I have an IUD. Those are, like, one hundred percent effective.”
“No,” he said. “You don’t.”
“What?”
He held up a piece of typed paper with a signature on the bottom. My signature. “We checked you when you came in the first time. Weeks ago. The IUD had passed its expiry date, and we removed it.”
“What? How did I not feel that?”
“You were medicated. It doesn’t hurt to remove anyway.”
“Was I stoned when I signed this?” I snapped the paper away from him.
“No. You signed the next day.”
I’d signed off on understanding this the first time I was released, an hour before I got into Deacon’s car. Well, crap. Crap crap crap. I’d always been careful. I’d never had to have an emergency D&C. Never took a morning-after pill. Never missed a period.
“Wait. Doesn’t it take weeks for the tests to know?”
“Blood tests can detect pregnancy days after conception.”
What the hell was I supposed to do?
And what had I done to my body in the past week?
“Is it okay?” I asked. “I smoked. And there was that thing I took last night—”
“Two nights ago.”
“I don’t even know what it was. Did I hurt it?”
And did it matter?
And whose was it?
“We won’t know until you get a CVS at twelve weeks. The meds you’re on aren’t contraindicated, but I’m lowering your dose.”
Jesus Christ. I didn’t know who the father was.
Another item on the list of things that may or may not matter.
“Would you like to discuss your options?” the doctor asked.
How long had I been staring at that paper?
“No,” I said. “Not right now.” I didn’t think I could discuss options until I’d absorbed what had happened.
“All right. If you want to use the phone to tell your family, I’m sure it’s allowed.”
I walked down the hall, crossing the cafeteria. I saw Warren sitting next to the ping-pong table before I saw Jonathan hitting the ball back over the net to someone I didn’t know. Warren made eye contact with me, his expression flat and charmless as if he never felt a thing about anything. Then he smiled, and I realized I’d seen his true self in that unguarded second. Just emotional emptiness he had to fill every single minute of every single day.
Jonathan’s back was to me. He dropped his paddle and shook his opponent’s hand. Warren and I were still bound by our stare, his vacant smile, the breakneck swirl of guilt and shame over a bean of a baby. I wondered if he could see inside me, but I knew he couldn’t. I was having feelings, hot and cold, up and down, a broken narrative of thoughts spitting out waves of anger, joy, confusion, helplessness. He’d never had an emotion. Not about anything. He couldn’t see mine. He craved my feelings, fed on them, was so curious about them he’d rape me to create them.
I hadn’t chosen what to do about the baby, but when I walked away from the cafeteria, it wasn’t because I was afraid for myself. I had another person to protect.
CHAPTER 49.
fiona
I skipped dinner. Skipped rec time. Skipped talking. Skipped thinking. Went to group session in the afternoon because it would be noticed if I didn’t, and my feet hurt from standing by the window.
I couldn’t get a space on one of the Herman Miller chairs, so I sat next to another girl who had her hands in her lap. She bounced her knees as if they were fully gassed-up pistons. I didn’t want to talk to her or the four people across from us. They had ennui, depression, a case of the existential blues. Too much tickle and not enough slap.
And guiding us through all of this was Brazilian blowout. Dr. Deanna.
“Yesterday, we talked about Quentin’s last night out before he came here, and his feelings of—”
Good times.
Could I eat the organic, locally grown, handmade crackers? Was starch bad? Was there too much salt? Was I even keeping this thing? Never mind who the father was, how was I qualified to be a mother?
“We’ve had some very productive discussions, so—”
Did I have to tell the father? Would I tell both of them? Neither? Would I just get rid of it and smile happily at Elliot and pretend I didn’t have cause to see Deacon ever again?
“But first, I wanted to make sure we all know—”
And then what?
And why?
“Would you like to introduce yourself to—”
Did I have something better to do?
Was I broke? Orphaned? Sick?
Did I have nothing at all to offer a baby?
“I have something to offer,” I said to myself but loudly enough that Deanna thought I was speaking to her.
“Go on,” she said.
Six sets of over-privileged eyes stared at me in varying shades of curiosity and distrust. I hadn’t wanted to speak. I was just going to say hello and go back to my room to brood. But they expected something from me now, and it wasn’t to feed their egos or entertain them but to help them.
“I…”
Swallow.
“I have a lot to offer. I’m a good friend. A good sister. I protect people who are important to me. I can teach someone about the world, about what to expect. I can help them avoid my mistakes. I’m honest with people even if it hurts me. And I’m funny sometimes. And brave.” I sat straighter, because I felt the truth in that one. From bone to skin, I knew it was true, so I repeated it.
“I am brave.”
CHAPTER 50.
fiona
I slept. I didn’t know if it was the meds or the after-effects of Jack’s stupid tar shit. But I left session without elaborating or speaking again, and I went to my room and slept.
When I woke, I knew something for sure.
I had to tell Elliot and Deacon.
I was keeping the baby, and I had to tell them. If I was brave, and I was, then that was what had to be done. Toying with any other options was cowardly shit, and I didn’t do cowardly. Not any more.
Decision made.
I saturated the sheets with relief, melting into the bed, soaking the pillowcase with silent tears. I mourned my old self. My long reign of fuck yous. The broken record of highs and lows. I wept for the youth that should have killed me, the unabashed hunt for pleasure, the search for meaning in pain. It was all over, and I was glad to see it go. I was committed to leaving it all in the past and terrified I wouldn’t make it.
But brave bitches do what they have to do.
I got up, showered, took my meds, and walked the halls without looking one way or the other. Just paced my ass over to Elliot’s office before his first session.
The door was closed. It was too early, and I had to be out of my freaking mind to try to talk to him in here. Was I trying to ruin his life? Going to see him, telling him I was pregnant, what did I expect? He’d either make too much physical contact or none at all, and we’d both be ripped apart.
Get it together.
I didn’t want to ruin his life. I had to do this myself. I had to contain both my anxiety and my unreasonable joy. One had to be managed and the other made managing it difficult.
But what about Deacon? He had a right to know as well. In the years we’d been together, we’d never discussed the possibility of children. Would he tell me to get rid of it? I wouldn’t if I didn’t want to. I didn’t need anything from him.
The flip side, of course, was that he might do the less surprising thing and ask for a life with me. I stood on a stone path in the back of the main building and wondered what that would look like. I took the life with Elliot I’d imagined and inserted Deacon. Deacon making eggs. Deacon picking up the kids. Deacon having guests for dinner.
Jesus Christ. No. That wasn’t working.
He could be on a ranch in Montana. He could teach the kids to care for the horses and manage the hands. He could teach retribution. Vengeance. Bullies would disappear in the night and be found hanging from the town flagpole in the morning.
I rubbed my eyes.
I didn’t need either of them. But I was tied to one for the rest of my life.
A nice long line of flake would really help me get control of this. I laughed at the thought. I was crazy. The last thing I should be doing was snorting. I’d probably damaged the baby forever as it was with Jack’s stupid tar shit.
Fuck it. I couldn’t talk to either of those guys. Not good for my mental health. What was I supposed to say? Blah blah pregnant blah blah might be yours might not? Westonwood was the best place for me.
I was so deep in my thoughts, I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I bumped right into Warren. In the sunlight, I could really see him. His tight curls had gotten fuzzy and grown out, and his skin had more grey than pink in it. He must have seen me coming and stood in one place until I ran into him just to see what I’d look like when I recognized him.
“Get the fuck away from me,” I said.
“What’s with you? Telling people shit? They got everyone on lockdown. Hired half a new staff. You fucked it up for everyone else.”
“No, I fucked it up for you. You’re a fucking psychopath.”
“Want to know the best shit about being a psychopath?”
“Fuck you.”
“Not caring that other people think you’re a psychopath.”
“Hey,” a voice called from down the path. One of the new security guys. “You two.”
Warren and I each took a step backward.
“You all right?” the security guy said to me.
“Yeah.”
He stared at Warren until he backed up. My nemesis was apparently losing the war of public opinion in crazyland county. Warren looked into the faces of others to see what he felt about himself, and if he saw something besides admiration, I could only imagine how he’d react.
“Come on, Miss Drazen,” the security guard said. He indicated the door back inside. “Your sister’s here.”
CHAPTER 51.
fiona
Margie looked shaken to the core.
She didn’t, really. She wore a custom-made charcoal grey suit and heels that were just this side of sensible. Her red hair was back in a low twist, and every lash had a reasonable amount of mascara. But her world had been rocked. I knew it as soon as the door closed behind me and she spoke.
“Hello.” She hugged me.
I held her for dear life, but it felt as if she leaned into me for support rather than the other way around. She led me to the chair next to her, the same ones we’d sat in the day I was released.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I’m here to ask about you. What the fuck happened?”
“I was stupid. That’s all. I was trying to get to Warren through his family.”
She tilted her head left then right, as if stretching her neck. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Really?”
“None of it does. Nothing. There’s nothing we can do to him or any of them. The rape kit was inconclusive. He’s going to walk.”
“What did the prosecutor say?”
“Bought and sold. He dropped it. I’m sorry. And we have nothing.” She popped open her briefcase. “Our father is on a downward trajectory. The money isn’t there. It’s tied up. I can’t even discuss it. And the Chiltons are waging a PR war to protect Warren’s directing career. They put him in the same ward with you, and they’re fighting any separation because it makes it look like he’s guilty, which he is.” She slammed her hand on the table. “We have no tools. Not above board. None that play by the rules. And this—”
She put a folder in front of me. Man, she looked like hell.
“I don’t know how to make this right for you,” she said. “Not yet…”
She stopped herself, sniffing back a sob angrily, and indicated the folder.
I opened it. “Oh.”
Irving’s pictures faced me. They were works of art. Depictions of a woman in bone-deep pain.
“I made a promise to myself,” Margie said. “I’m not relying on the law to protect this family.”
“You’re a lawyer.” I flipped through the pictures. Five. I was in varying stages of pain and nudity. My heart broke for myself.
“Warren is facing consequences,” Margie said. “By any means necessary, Fiona.”
I turned away from the pictures and looked at her. She had thin damp lines of mascara under her eyes, and her lips were set in a determined line.
“We’re making a new name for ourselves. No one fucks with us. When they hear Drazen, they’re going to feel nothing but fear. No one’s going to hurt you again.” She slapped the folder closed. “First thing is stop this from publishing. I’ll sneak into Condé Nast and break kneecaps myself if I have to.”
My finger traced the outside of the folder, and I set it straight with the edge of the table. “I think we should let it publish.”
“They’re going to drag you through the mud.”
“I don’t care. You do what you have to. I… did they tell you?”
“I’m going to assume they didn’t.”
“I’m pregnant.”
I’d seen a cartoon once where the character’s face turned to ice, cracked, and fell off in a cute little pile of cubes. Margie’s face froze like that, and I waited for the cubes.
“It’s not Warren’s,” I said quickly.
“How do you know?”
Wasn’t she there for the rape kit? Didn’t she hear my testimony? Maybe not. She wasn’t looking right at the affected area for the kit and she’d been out of the room on a call for part of the conversation with the female cop. My god. Did I really have to say this? Was I that brave?
I made myself look casual about it. “He only raped me anally.”
Ice cubes to blow torches.
“I’m going to kill him.”
“It’s fine, I just—”
“Literally. Kill. Then destroy that family.”
“I just want to focus on this right now, okay?” I said. “I can’t worry about tearing his guts out, which yes, I still want to do. I have to tell the two men who could be the father. I have to stop wanting drugs so bad. I need new friends who don’t party. I have to have a life. I don’t have the energy for anything else.”
She took my hands in hers. “I can’t let it go.”
“I’m not saying I can either. But it’s too much. You figure out the retribution and let me know.”
“So you’re keeping it? The baby?”
“Yes.”
“Daddy’s going to shit.”
“Fuck him. He’d shit either way.”
“That’s my girl.”
“I need you to get Deacon in here. I don’t want to tell him over the phone.”
She nodded. “You got it, little sister.”
CHAPTER 52.
elliot
I saw Fiona Tuesday and Thursday in the halls or in the common area. I watched her talk to her brother and a few friends she’d made. We exchanged cordial words. I kept an eye on Warren. I dropped in unexpectedly on the weekend to do paperwork so I could make sure she was all right. I spoke to the staff about keeping her and Warren separated, because even if none of the patients knew about Fiona’s accusations, the rest of the world did.
A constant state of stress and emptiness followed me everywhere. I cancelled a session with Lee because I couldn’t stand her judgments. She would be right. I had no right to touch a patient, and I didn’t care anymore. My right didn’t come from a board of ethics. It came from God.
In the hallway right before the staff meeting, I saw her alone. She stood framed in the perspective of the hall, the vanishing point on the horizon. Thirty feet away, she faced me, and as far away as she was, I knew something had changed about her. She didn’t buz
z. She hummed with the universe in a wordless harmony.
I let my mouth shape a single word without sound. “Soon.”
A smile curled one side of her beautiful mouth. She continued to breakfast, and I went to my staff meeting.
“Good morning,” I said. Last one there. How long had I been staring at Fiona? I would have to be more careful.
“Chapman,” Frances said in greeting, checking my name off the list.
We were all here. Three licensed therapists, two MDs, and three administrators.
“Two incidents this week,” Frances said.
I pulled out the reports. One incident involved Chilton. In the other, he was suspected as an instigator. He was indeed using the abundance of rope to hang himself.
“He’s acting out,” Deanna said. She took his sessions. “The thing with the Drazen girl is upsetting him.”
“He’s incapable of feeling upset,” I said.
“He needs to know his voice is heard in here,” Deanna said. “He’s being kept away from activities because of an accusation. It’s hard on him.”
“What’s he taking?” Frances pored through his file.
A discussion ensued where they talked about him as if he were a normal person with feelings that needed to be managed and a chemical makeup that was like everyone else’s.
“What about Paxil?” I interjected. “Get control of the outbursts.”
“Contraindicated for suicidal side effects,” one of the other therapists interjected.
“In depressed patients,” I said.
“Anger is a form of depression,” Deanna said.
“Not in his case. He’s frustrated. Different.”
“I think it’s okay,” one of the MDs said, not looking up from his agenda.
“Done,” Frances said, checking it off her list. “And we’re separating him and Fiona. Sorry, Deanna. We’ll let them mingle in a week, but the Drazen girl’s bound to be emotional and unstable.”
“Why?” I asked too fast. I cleared my throat. It didn’t look as though anyone had noticed.
“She’s pregnant and on med reduction.”
Every nerve ending in my body fired a signal to my brain to stop what it was doing. Don’t react. Stay still. Look down. Blink. Produce spit. Breathe. Swallow. Fucking breathe.
