Fat Chance

by Brandi Kennedy

  "And the whale?" he suggests helpfully. "Sorry, it's just that your blubber tends to be a little distracting. Sometimes, I'm so busy fighting off waves of nausea that I can hardly think at all."

  "My, my," I gasp, raising a hand to my chest, struggling not to laugh as his eyes follow my hand, lingering before me meets my eyes again. "You must be nauseous a lot, because you think about as much as a doorknob."

  "You disgusting bitch --" he hisses, cut off as Janet's voice rings out from the kitchen doorway behind him.

  "I'll thank you not to use that language in my house, young man. And kindly remove your feet from my furniture."

  Rick's eyes widen, and so does my smile. He knows that I've set him up, and fury floods his face as Janet enters the living room, her arms crossed. He stands, freezing as Chelsea and Renee follow behind Janet, both of them enraged.

  "And here I thought you'd grown up," Janet says, coming to a stop in front of him. "Are you really so low, Rick? Have you learned nothing from us?"

  "Apparently not," Chelsea mutters, and Rick whirls on her.

  "You shut your mouth, this is none of your business," he growls, raising a finger to point at her. She hesitates, but Renee is bold, stepping forward to slap his hand away.

  "How dare you!" she exclaims. "My parents took you in when the whole world thought you were worthless. My father took you under his wing, like a son. And this is how you thank us? You disrespect his memory by tearing someone else apart, after he tried so hard to make something good out of you?" Raising her hand, she slaps his face, and shock widens his eyes.

  "I have done nothing to disrespect him," he whispers.

  "Who the hell do you think brought her here?" Renee retorts. "It was his idea all along, to take in kids who had no one, and give them a life. He took her in," she says, turning to point to me. "And he loved her so much that he petitioned to keep her, and then he petitioned for another foster. You. If he were still alive, he'd be ashamed."

  "I doubt it. Look at me, Renee," he snorts, raising his arms wide. "I'm fit, I'm strong, I'm successful. I have a good job, my own home. I'm the son he always wanted."

  "No son of my husband would ever think he'd be proud of a bully," Janet says, and Rick's face turns crimson.

  "Bully? A bully? What is this, high school? Poor Cassie can't stand up for herself, so she brings the principal in to give me detention?" Turning to me, he sneers, "What a big girl you are, Cassie, to have someone else come fight your battles. What a big, cowardly girl."

  He must think he's got me adequately hurt, or trained, that I won't say anything more to expose him.

  "I guess it is high school, then Ricky," I say, smiling as he stiffens. "Because a grown man doesn't run around crying like a baby, and hurling vicious insults, just because a girl didn't want him. What's next, you gonna tell the whole football team that I'm easy or something? Oh, I know!" I clasp my hands under my chin, widening my eyes as if I've had a brilliant new idea. "You could spray paint something ugly on my locker! Ooooh!"

  "This is bullshit. You guys lie to get me here, and have this joke of a woman sitting here to trap me into saying things? What the hell is going on here?" Now he's changing tactics, pretending to be hurt. He turns to Janet, running a hand down her arm. "Why would you do this to me?"

  Stepping back, she pulls her arm away from him. "You did this to yourself,” she says. “You've grown bitter over the want of a woman who should be like a sister to you. You've bullied her and you've tortured her, and you've said vile and nasty things to her, both in private and in public. I'm ashamed to think of you as my son; no son who respected my home and my values would ever behave that way."

  Tears fill her eyes, and Rick takes a step back, shocked, as she delivers her final statement. "And until you're willing to do something about what you've become, don't you set foot in this house again." Spinning on her heel, she leaves the room. The twins trail behind her, and soon we hear the back door open and close.

  Rick and I are alone, standing in the living room. His hands are fisted at his sides; my wine glass is tightly gripped in my hands. Our eyes are locked, and the tension in the room is an energy so powerful that I begin to tremble slightly.

  "How dare you set me up like this?" he rages, a furious crimson sliding up around his neck. He steps close to me, nostrils flaring, his chest swelling with his breath, making him seem larger than before, but I don't back down. I step close, too, right into his personal space.

  "I'm not your dog to kick around anymore, you bastard. You can't violate my confidence in secret, and then play the hero in front of the family. Not anymore. All this because I didn't want you, and now they don't either, because they see the real you; the loser, the failure, the little Ricky boy that you've tried to hide for so long. And now? You learn to deal with me as part of the family, and you learn to show me the respect that I deserve after putting up with your crap for so long, or you lose everything. It's up to you now."

  "And here," I continue, pressing my wine into his hands. "I think you need this more than I do. I have a family dinner to attend."

  I feel high as I turn away from Rick and lift my purse from the couch. Stepping silently around him, as he stands frozen in panic, I realize that I finally have the closure that I needed. I needed him to face who he was, but I have no desire to lord it over him or to stand here and gloat. I've said what I needed to say, and I'm finished now. The look on his face tells me that I've accomplished what I came for; I've reclaimed my power and my right to my own self-respect. I've stood tall; I've made my point.

  Leaving him alone to face his part in what has happened, and to face his decision on how he'll handle it, I follow Janet and the girls to the back porch. The proverbial ball is in his court, now.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Walking into my apartment, I drop my purse, lock the door, and go straight to my bedroom. My cell phone died while I was driving home from Janet's house, and I need to plug it back in, so I leave it to charge while I'm in the shower.

  I'm jittery with pride and excitement, but at the same time, I'm just completely full of dread. I know that I did what needed to be done with Rick, but as I'm stripping down for my shower and testing the temperature of the water, I can't help feeling a little afraid of what might happen next. We don't know how long he sat there, alone in the quiet living room we grew up in.

  All we know right now is that when Janet and I carried a load of empty dishes into the kitchen, she peeked into the living room and he was gone. The empty wine goblet was still sitting there on the coffee table, next to the now-empty bottle. He'd finished it, silently brooding, and then left the house.

  "Hey, Chelsea," I'd called. "Are there any lights on over at Rick's?"

  "No, his truck is gone," she'd shouted back.

  Letting the water run down my head and into my face, I can't stop wondering how affected he might have been by the wine he'd finished. I needed to stand up for myself, but I certainly didn't mean for him to go off and do anything crazy. I pour citrus scented shampoo into my hand, and as I work the suds through my hair, I make the decision to call Janet after my shower.

  I know I've done what I needed to do for myself, but I still need to know that my brother made it home okay.

  Finishing my shower, I turn the water off and open the curtain. Stepping out onto the warm fluff of my bathroom rug, I towel off and slip into some comfortable cotton pajamas, wrapping my drippy hair in the towel as I head back into my bedroom.

  "Okay, time to check on the family ass," I mutter, lifting my phone from the bed and powering it on. A voicemail icon shows in the upper part of the screen, and confusion fills me as I click the missed call indicator. I don't know the number, so I click to listen to the voicemail.

  "You don't know me," a female voice breathes. "But I know you, a little. I'm Harmony Kingsley. My brother is Drew, and I found your number in his phone. He was asking about you before they took him,. Please … please call me back."

  Panicked, I di
sconnect the call and click the missed call again, sliding my finger across the screen to initiate a new call.

  How did she end up with his phone? What's happened to him?

  "Hello?"

  "Harmony?" I ask. "This is Cassaundra Keaton. You called me about Drew?"

  Her breath catches, and she sniffles before she answers me. "Yeah. He kept whispering your name the whole time, and then they came to take him away."

  "What? Who took him? Where is he?" Confused, I drop to the edge of the bed and wait, hoping she can get herself together and explain what’s going on.

  "My parents are with the doctors," she says. "He's in surgery, Drew's in surgery."

  "What?" Jumping from the bed, my eyes fill with tears, and my breath traps itself in my chest as I shove my pajama pants down my legs.

  "He was at work, and I don't know what happened. He was shot, and they had to do some surgery to fix one of his lungs," she says, as I switch the phone to speaker and rip my shirt over my head. Grabbing the phone, I run to the bathroom and snatch up the clothes I just took off, struggling to get them on as I listen in horror.

  "They brought him back and they said he would be okay, and then, later, they took him off the ventilator. And he just kept trying to talk and all he could do was whisper, and he was whispering your name. He wanted you there, so when they said he was still bleeding inside and they took him away again, I stole his phone from his stuff so I could get your number to call you."

  By this point, I'm fully dressed, though I feel silly about the idea of rushing to his side, when it's probably at least a little bit my fault that he's hurt in the first place. I’m not even his girlfriend anymore.

  Was he distracted? He knew my confrontation with Rick was tonight, oh my god, what if he dies because of me?

  "Can you come? I know my brother; I know he'd want you here."

  "But your family, I mean, are you sure I should --"

  "Look, he's been moping around for weeks, ever since you guys broke up. And now he's hurt, and he's asking for you. I may be young, but I've been with these people all my life, and if you being here will help him in any way, then they'd want you here too."

  "Then why'd you have to steal his phone to call me, Harmony?"

  "Duh, because I couldn't ask his permission. My family knows I called you. Can you come, or not?"

  Heaving a sigh, I listen to Harmony's trembling voice as she tells me what hospital to go to, and where I can find her. I slip my feet into a pair of sandals, check myself in the mirror, and grab my purse. Stuffing my phone charger inside, I grab a roll of dollar bills from my sock drawer and stuff that in my purse, too.

  "And you're sure he'd want me there?" I ask, uncertain.

  "Yes. He was calling for you, every second until they took him. Please, if they bring him back and he makes it through, I know he'd want you there to hold onto."

  The idea of Drew dying propels me into motion, and I'm locking my door before I realize I'm doing it. "Okay, then," I reassure her. "I'm on my way."

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Walking into the hospital, I turn to the left and see a tiny young woman sitting in front of a piano, set to play itself. With honeyed-chocolate hair and ocean blue eyes, she is utterly beautiful. Her face is reminiscent of the lines that mark Drew's face, somewhat angular, but softened nicely by her inherent femininity. Slender and incredibly petite, she makes me feel immediately like I was seven hundred pounds.

  "Harmony?" I ask, shyly walking up to her. She nods, her eyes filling with silent tears.

  "I'm Cassaundra," I say, and she is immediately in my arms.

  "Thank you for coming," she says, her arms winding themselves around my neck. Thrown off by the contact, I pat her back, waiting for her to let me go.

  "He made it out of the second surgery," she says, stepping back and smiling weakly at me. "And they think he's going to be okay, but he's on a lot of medication and stuff. He's hooked up to a lot of stuff too, but you can see him. I told my parents you were coming."

  "Okay. Harmony?" I ask, and she nods, waiting for me to speak. "How old are you?"I have to ask; she seems so young to me, innocent, almost.

  "I'm nineteen, as of last week," she answers. "Want to see Drew?"

  "Yes, of course." She offers me a canned soda, and I take it, popping the top for something to do as we walk. Harmony leads me down a corridor walled on both sides with offices, and then we enter an elevator. I probably should be paying perfect attention to where we walk, but at this point, I'm so nervous, she could be leading me to my death and I wouldn't notice until it's too late.

  Soon, we come to a door where Harmony stops and says, "Okay, hang on just a sec," and she leaves me standing awkwardly alone in the hallway while she darts into a room I assume is his. Coming back out, she says, "Well, I was going to get my parents to come out, but they aren't in there, I'm not sure where they went. Anyway, I'm going to hang out over there, and give you some time alone with him." I make a mental note of the door she's indicated, knowing that I will probably need her to walk me back out of this labyrinth.

  "Okay?" she asks, watching me as if I'm going to faint or maybe randomly start screaming.

  "I'm okay," I whisper, and after a quick touch of the hand, she turns to walk away, her narrow shoulders lowered. Her look of sadness is so heavy, it's almost as if I can see it.

  Okay, let's do this then.

  Turning, I walk cautiously into the room, hoping the door won't squeak. It doesn't, but it creaks just a little, and his eyes pop open.

  "Cass?" he croaks, and I can tell he's surprised to see me here. "How?" He grabs for his throat with a pained look, swallows, and tries again. "How you here?"

  His words are slurred, his eyes blurry and unfocused, but his face is the same face I have fallen in love with. I've been denying it for some time now, too afraid of what I was feeling to admit it, even to myself. But standing here beside him, with his hand gripping mine and my other hand buried in his dark hair, I know that I love him.

  "Your sister called me," I whisper, looking over him, taking in the oxygen tube snaking under his nose, tucked behind his ears. His other arm is like a robot portal, with bandages everywhere, an IV poking out of his forearm, a pulse monitor strapped to his index finger, and a blood pressure cuff, tightening even as I watched.

  The arm I'm leaning over sports a suspicious wrap around the bicep; I point to it and raise my eyebrow, to which his response is to look incredibly sheepish.

  "Here too?" I ask, feeling my strength leave me when he nods. Blindly, I reach behind me, dragging a chair closer to his bedside, and I drop into it. Desperate to get my emotions under control, I lower my head to the bed, gently next to his side. He grunts a little, and then his hand is in my hair, stroking me like a pet, offering me comfort.

  I remain still, accepting what he offers me, though I feel guilty even in that.

  "S'okay now," he whispers, but by the time I raise my head, he's drifted off. Sitting there alone in the quiet, looking around in the dim light of the room, I can't believe how close I came -- how close we came -- to never getting our second chance.

  Two surgeries. Two surgeries to save his life. Thank you, God, for Harmony.

  Leaning back in the chair, I feel free to take a good look at him while he rests. His legs are straight along the edges of the bed, the sheet and blanket pooled between, and one foot is entirely uncovered. His cheek is bruised, there is a gauze bandage on one side of his broad neck, and there are frighteningly dark shadows under his eyes.

  Eventually, I realize how furious I am with myself, how silly it looks now, to have put him off and pushed him away because I felt insecure. I can't stop thinking that he must have been distracted; thinking that if I hadn't told him about the confrontation with Rick, Drew would be fine right now. Looking at the bandage on his arm because I can't yet bring myself to look toward his chest, I cry silently for what we might have lost.

  "S'wrong, baby?" he asks, some time later. Looking up, I
realize he is awake again, and has been watching me, gazing out the window as tears run unhindered down my face.

  "Nothing's wrong," I lie, and he smiles weakly, drunk on medications. "I'm okay, I just ... Drew, I'm sorry."

  "Shhh," he says. "You didn't do this." He reaches for me, and I take his hand, scooting my chair closer to his bed.

  "But I did. That stupid dinner, Drew, I should have never told you about it, I should have just dealt with it, and --"

  "No," he whispers, his eyes fluttering as he tries to stay awake, to be with me. "Not because, you," he says.

  "I've been such a mess," I argue. "And if I wasn't a distraction to you --"

  "No," he says again, more firmly, though it pains him to speak loudly. He gestures with his free hand, indicating his chest, covered by the faint patterned fabric of a hospital gown. "Not your fault. Dinner, was, how?" His forehead wrinkles as he struggles to speak, through the sore throat and the drugs pumping through his IV.