by Pandora Snow
The sound of vomiting crackles through the apartment as I open the front door. I guess morning sickness isn't limited to morning.
"Oh baby, I'm sorry," I say, walking into the bathroom and kneeling next to her on the hard tile floor. I rinse a clean washcloth in cold water and place the towel on her forehead. She sits back on her knees and wipes her mouth with toilet paper.
"Let me brush my teeth," she breathes, my arms lifting her to stand in front of the pedestal sink.
I lay my head along her shoulder, gently keeping her steady while cleansing the foul smell and taste from her mouth. Telling her about the insurance rejection will have to wait. I hate myself for lying to her by not being upfront and truthful. But right now, she's the primary focus, the only focus that matters.
She's wrapped in my comforting embrace as I carry her to the couch.
"How was your appointment this morning," she asks, her tired head resting against my chest.
"Good," I reply. "What do you need, baby, water, crackers?"
"Nothing right now," she replies, rubbing her hand along my chest. A regurgitating sound escapes from her mouth as she jumps off my legs and rushes back to the bathroom. The next round of upheaval is more violent than the first, her stomach retching in dry heaves.
I had no idea how physically demanding pregnancy would be on her sweet body. All I can do is watch helplessly in pain and be there to hold her. I hope that's enough.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The alarm on my cell phone is ringing as I grab the device to hit the snooze button. Shit, I've overslept. Rebecca fell asleep in my arms last night after two more rounds of vomiting. I shift my torso towards her and gently run my fingers along her forehead.
"Morning," she whispers, her tired eyes offering me a small smile.
"Are you going to stay home this morning?" I ask, despite knowing I'm already late for work.
"No, I'll just take my time getting ready. I told my boss yesterday I was pregnant. She understands I may be off schedule for a little while. You need to go; I'm ok."
"Call me if you need anything?" I say against her lips before jumping out of bed and into the shower. Being in two places at once is an impossible task. The stress is already weighing me down, and the day has just begun.
"Scott, my office," Johnson calls as I try to sneak past his trailer.
"Yes sir," I offer, stepping through the door.
"I've given you numerous warnings about being late, Scott. I respect and appreciate your service to our country, but we have deadlines to meet. I'm afraid I'm going to have to let you go."
"Sir, if I could just explain…"
"I'm sorry, Scott, I truly am. You can come by after lunch for your final paycheck. Good luck."
My shoulders slump as I walk back to my jeep, the mounting burdens too much weight for me to bear. I start the worn-out engine and drive to O'Shays. I just need a little relief, a few solitary hours to figure out what I'm going to do next. I text Clarence for Everett's number. It's finally time to call in re-enforcements.
I pick up a vegetarian pizza on my way home, hoping Rebecca will have the stomach for some food. She's working on her computer at the kitchen table as I enter the apartment, a pencil between her teeth. She's adorable.
"I wasn't sure if you'd be in the mood for pizza tonight. I brought home a pie with veges." I give a half-smile as she turns to me in frustration. She can't possibly know I lost my job. She must know I had to quit therapy.
"Why didn't you tell me insurance rejected your therapy claim yesterday, Drake? I do this for a living; I can help." She's trying her best to maintain a look of annoyance, but the smell of a hot pizza is curving her lips into a small smile.
I set the box on the table and scoop her into my arms. My hands massage along her arms and shoulders for comfort.
"You're not feeling well, and I didn't want to increase your stress."
She's pacified with my comment but removes herself from my arms to grab a couple of paper plates.
She hands me a slice, and we sit at the table, but she refuses to look me in the eye. I like seeing her eat, but I'm still in the doghouse for something.
"Did you have a few beers after work?" she asks, the smell of alcohol on my breath and clothing impossible to hide.
"Just a couple, baby, I swear; long day at work." Her eyes shoot straight through mine, a flare of anger pinning me down.
"Chuck called and said he wants to talk to you; he couldn't reach you on your number. You know, since you lost your job today." She's shoving the food in her mouth to prevent her from spewing hurtful words we might both regret. She's gone from mildly angry to raging mad.
"Rebecca, please. I don't know what to do here. I'm worried about your health, and all of the other shit that's fallen into my lap regarding work. What I care about most, the only thing I care about, is taking care of you. I'm sure I can get another job tomorrow, that's no problem."
"So, you think knocking me up is shit I've dropped in your lap!" Her high-pitched voice is piercing through the air.
"NO! That's not what I meant! Please, Rebecca, I just need a few days to figure out work. I'll call Chuck back and see if he has any leads. I never intended to be hurtful or deceitful; I was just trying to think of you first and spare you my problems."
"But that’s the issue, Drake! Your problems are my problems! We're supposed to be in this together, through good times and bad. If you can't be honest with me, I can't trust you. And if I can't trust you, I can't marry you."
I'm praying to the Lord above right now this outburst is a side effect of her changing hormones. Because if it isn't, I think she's asking me to leave.
The doorbell rings, interrupting the most critically important conversation we've ever had. I'm dismayed to see her mother standing on our porch, a small overnight bag under her arm. Rebecca must have been stewing about me for hours to call her mother.
"Hello, Mrs. Martin," I say politely, standing back for her to enter.
"Drake," she replies, walking straight over to Rebecca and giving her a motherly hug.
Rebecca bursts into tears, unable to control her chaotic emotions any longer. I stand by helpless, knowing I let down the one woman who believes in me. She needs her mother right now. I'm of no use to her.
Mrs. Martin turns towards me with a neutral expression. "Drake, I think it's best you find somewhere else to stay tonight. Rebecca told me she's pregnant. She needs her mother's love and understanding."
I implore Rebecca to look at me, but she refuses, hugging her mother tightly.
"Yes, Maam," I respond. "Please call me if either of you needs anything. I'll stay with a friend for a few nights. Rebecca, I love you," I say in a shaky voice, hiding my tears just long enough to pack a duffle bag and walk out the front door of our apartment.
Even in the heat of battle, I've never felt so utterly defeated. The drive to Everett’s house is about four hours. I hope to hell he'll allow me back into his life. He’s all I’ve got.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Drake, geez man, it's good to hear from you. We've been worried."
I breathe an audible sigh of relief, knowing that Everett would pick up our friendship. I've got to bite the bullet and get his advice: my potential marriage to Rebecca depends on it.
"I'm sorry to drop in unannounced, but would it be possible for me to stay with you for a few days?" I don't elaborate.
"Of course, Drake, you're a brother to me. Where are you now?"
"Exit 36 next to a liquor store," I reply, Everett ordering me to stay put.
He pulls into the parking lot ten minutes later and gives me a bear hug.
"It's terrific to see you, Drake," he says sincerely. He's subtly evaluating my mental and physical condition, a true medic at heart. I'm welcome to sleep on the couch, and he mentions he could use an extra hand with his dad.
"Follow me," he states, and we jump into our vehicles. Everett's kindness is unconditional, and he'll me stay no questions asked. Finally, i
t seems, I've made a good decision.
I hide the bottle of whiskey I bought at the liquor store in my duffle bag. I'm embarrassed and ashamed of my behavior. We walk in the front door, and he asks me how I've been. I don't even know where to start.
I keep the conversation vague, telling him I'm having difficulties dealing with the stress from our tour of duty and losing my job. When he asks me if I'm still with Rebecca, I nearly lose it.
Tears well up in my eyes at the mention of her name, my rough hands rubbing across my face.
"Yes. We're living together and plan to get married next year. She needed some time with her mother to sort a few things out."
He pats me on the back and grabs a pillow and blanket from the hall closet.
"We all feel overwhelmed in some way, Drake, even me. Some days I feel like I'm fighting a losing battle trying to care for Dad and pursue my medical career. A few days apart can do wonders to teach you what's truly important. She'll come around".
"Thanks, goodnight," I say, as he points out the restroom and shuts off the overhead lighting. I lay back on the couch, staring at the ceiling, wondering if Rebecca is asleep. I have no choice but to trust she’ll be waiting for me with open arms when I return.
***
Everett's couch is halfway comfortable as I rise and start a pot of coffee. An older gentleman wanders into the kitchen, taking me by surprise.
"Good Morning, sir," I immediately offer, "Private Drake Scott, I was part of Everett's squad in Iraq."
"Hell, nice to meet you, soldier. Everett mentioned he'd been trying to track you down. Veteran Frank Peterson," he says with a smile, planting a solid hand in mine.
"You can earn your keep by making me some cinnamon toast," he smiles, taking a seat at the kitchen table. Everett takes care of his aging father. He's a good man.
Everett walks into the kitchen as his Dad is regaling his war days.
"Thanks for making coffee, Drake. Hang tight, and we'll talk when I get home from work."
"Thanks for letting me crash on your couch, I appreciate it."
"You're welcome. Have a good day Dad."
He's out the door as the gravity of my screwed-up behavior begins depressing my heart. I try to call Rebecca, but she doesn't answer. She wasn't angry with me because I lost my job; she was mad because I didn't trust her enough to be honest.
I thought I was doing the right thing for her health, but a little distance has made me realize I was selfish. I didn't want her to see how embarrassed and defeated I was about losing my job and being denied therapy. Her words come back to haunt me as I berate my behavior, "If I can't trust you, I can't marry you."
I'm desperate to feel even a moment of relief from the heavy sadness surrounding my spirit. I pull the bottle of whiskey out of my duffle bag and take a large swig. One or two won't hurt, I'm not driving. Frank puts on a Netflix WWII documentary series, and we both zone out to the noise of gunfire.
We're watching mindless television; the morning having disappeared. The front door unlocks, both of our eyes looking up. My jaw drops open as a ray of fire-engine red sunshine steps across the threshold.
"Good Afternoon, Mr. Peterson, how are you today?" She stops in her tracks when she sees me, unsure who I am, or if I'm a friend or foe.
"Good Afternoon Miss Cummings, this is Everett's squad buddy, Drake. Don't just sit there, soldier, help her with the groceries!" he orders.
I jump to my feet and take the brown paper bags from her arms. She smells nice, not lavender, but nice.
"Thank you. I'm Michelle Cummings. I come by in the afternoon to check on Mr. Peterson." I'm seriously impressed. Everett has a hot nanny of sorts to cook his meals and help him look after his father. He failed to mention this interesting fact last night. Lucky bastard.
"Pleasure to meet you, Maam. Everett is letting me crash on his couch for a couple of days."
She smiles and walks into the kitchen to put away the groceries I quickly set down. It may be the whiskey talking, but she's quite beautiful. This guilty thought deflates my self-esteem even further. These thoughts are really about Rebecca. I miss my sweet pregnant fiancé like crazy.
"Have you had lunch, Mr. Peterson?" she calls from the kitchen.
"Yes. Drake made me a bologna sandwich."
"Alright then," she answers, Frank tuning into the History Channel.
I walk back into the kitchen, dangerously needy for an ounce of comforting female energy.
"Will you be in town long, Drake?" she asks, noticing the half-empty alcohol bottle sticking out of my duffle bag on the floor.
"No, Maam, just catching up with a fellow medic." Her discerning green eyes are quickly assessing the situation, subtly evaluating my pupils and balance as I lean against the refrigerator.
"Excuse me," she states, needing to put the canned goods in the cabinet I'm blocking.
As she turns around next to me, I lunge for her, planting my drunk, sloppy lips on her mouth, grabbing her waist and pulling her against my chest.
She immediately steps back from my hold and slaps me hard along the left cheek. "You're drunk and you're hurting, but that gives you no right to kiss me." She picks up her purse and walks over to Frank.
"I have another appointment this afternoon, Mr. Peterson. Have a wonderful evening. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Goodbye, Miss Cummings," he says, eyes fixated on the screen.
Fuck, what have I done now? I don't know how this can get any worse. I immediately try calling Rebecca again to no avail. I drag my sorry ass onto the couch and spend the rest of the afternoon numbing myself with frivolous entertainment and stiff booze. I can't stay much longer, or I'll fuck up Everett's life worse than mine.
CHAPTER NINE
"Are you drunk?" Everett asks after checking on his Dad, fatigued from a long day.
"Yes," I say simply, the near-empty bottle a dead giveaway. He walks into the other room for a few minutes, making a few phone calls. When he returns, he starts a pot of coffee and sits next to me on the sofa.
"We're brothers, Drake. You can tell me anything. Start at the beginning and explain why you didn't want to stay in touch with the squad. Then we'll figure out how to dig you out of this cavernous hole. I know it's about Rebecca. No man ends up this defeated unless a woman is at the heart of his excruciating pain."
Two pots of bitter coffee later, my disgraced guts are spilled. Everett didn't judge or criticize my asinine actions, he simply listened. He's given me some excellent advice on including Rebecca's mother in my apology when I return home. Embracing Rebecca in a warm blanket of honesty and sincerity includes her family. If I focus on Rebecca's needs, mine will be automatically fulfilled.
He asks me if I have any more alcohol in my duffle and I reply no, before we all retire for the night.
"Remember something, Drake," he says, shutting off the light switch.
"We wouldn't have survived four years in Iraq without having each other to lean on. All of us are here for you."
I send Rebecca a simple text before falling asleep.
"I love you. I love our baby. I'm sorry."
***
Everett ran out early this morning for work, asking me to make Frank breakfast. He wasn't hungry, so I finished his cinnamon toast and another pot of this swill he calls coffee.
When Michelle arrived, I offered a short, sincere apology for my previous day's actions. I showed her a picture of Rebecca and said that I'd be heading home tomorrow. Everett needs to take his own advice and tie this woman down; she's clearly head over heels in love with him.
I politely excused myself for a couple of hours, walking around a local park to clear my laden head. I made a few phone calls and talked to Chuck, who gave me some promising job leads.
Rebecca finally texted me back, saying she felt better and that her mom was returning home tomorrow. Even through a text, I could feel her vulnerable kind energy reaching out to hold me.
I told her I would drive home tomorrow afternoon, and tha
t I wanted to apologize to her and her mother in person. She responded they would both like that and that she deeply missed me. Finally, a glimmer of hope. All is not lost.
Michelle was polite and friendly this afternoon when I returned from the park, focusing on Frank. She seemed slightly concerned at his lack of appetite, asking me to recount what he'd eaten since I arrived. She checked his blood pressure before leaving, telling me to keep a close eye out for any signs of distress.
"I need to pound some weights," Everett says, slamming the front door. "Go change."
