“I need to know they aren’t in communication.”
“Anything else?”
“Him to be present more.” It’s vague, so I add, “Physically and emotionally.”
“And with this pregnancy, you’re going to need all the reassurance you can get. Is that right?”
“Absolutely.” I brush a frustrated hand through my hair. “I need to know our family life is stable and there’s no chance of him ruining it again.” I continue, “And I know nothing is absolute.” My headache threatens to puncture my skull as it stabs at my temples. “But I’m tired of feeling alone in this.”
“But guess what, Charlotte? You have coping skills and mechanisms, and from our time together, I’ve watched you grow in your strength and resolve to put this behind you, which isn’t easy. I admire your ability to forgive.”
Nodding, I grasp the tissue in my hands hard enough that it starts to rip in half.
“Charlotte, Lauren’s not getting in the way of your happiness anymore. You are.”
A beep interrupts us, the timer signaling our session is over, and I haltingly rise from the couch.
“We will continue this next week. I’d like you to consider how Lauren impinges on your ability to be happy.”
I dig in my wallet and pull out cash, the way I always pay, and fork over $300 for the session. No wonder Dr. Everett is a fan of my dedication to therapy.
“Yes, will do. Thank you, Dr. Everett.”
“Let’s discuss your medication before you leave.”
After she explains what is safe during pregnancy and what has harmful side effects, she gives my arm a light squeeze. “Please call me if you need anything.”
CHAPTER 9
Elle
After Charlotte stalks out of the building, I slam my head against the cold metal locker.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, I berate myself. What the hell am I doing? I need Charlotte. She’s my way out. How am I supposed to get close to her if I push her away?
And in typical Elle fashion, I let my stubborn side rear its ugly head—or as my mother used to call it, my “bull in a china shop” attitude. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ve messed up what I started out to accomplish.
I need to backtrack, and fast.
When I run out to the parking lot, I see no sign of her charcoal Jeep. I check the teachers’ lot and the roundabout where parents drop their kids off. She probably tore out of here like a bat out of hell. Shit. I clench my fists. I royally screwed up.
Since this is now an excused absence, I leave Justin a note in his locker telling him to stop by the apartment after school. I curl up in a ball when I get to the apartment, and not even the sounds of my neighbor’s barking rottweiler can rouse me.
It’s not until I’m awakened later by the sound of the front door and look at the ugly grandfather clock that stands foolishly in the living room that I notice the time.
I croak, amazed at my ability to sleep all day.
Expecting the boys to run inside with their usual whirlwind of energy, I squeeze a smile on my face.
What am I going to be able to make them for a snack?
Tired of living like this, I forcefully slam the cupboards, their peeling wood and broken handles a constant reminder of my situation.
Instead, it’s Justin, wearing his typical outfit of ripped Levis and black Vans sneakers, grinning with his lopsided smile. His skateboard’s always tucked underneath one arm, and as if it’s a newborn, he delicately sets it down by the door.
“Where you been, woman?” He leans in casually, teasing me with his tongue. Usually I love the taste of him, but today the smell of his cigarettes mixed with cologne makes me queasy.
As I turn my face, his lips brush my cheek instead. “I’m not feeling well.”
“Oh shit, that’s not good. Cold or flu?”
Weakly, I smile. “I threw up in the office today.”
“Ouch. That’s rough. You seem kind of hot.” He rubs a hand over my forehead. “And your forehead does too.”
I giggle. He always finds a way to make me laugh, even when he says dumb shit.
“Can I make you anything?”
“Unless you can magically make food appear, the cupboards are bare.”
“Your phone working?”
“No.” I roll my eyes. “It ran out of minutes today. Think you can get me another prepaid card?”
“I’m just glad you had it during the storm.”
“I know.”
“Diane’s such a lowlife.” He mutters, “Yeah, I’ll see what I can do.” He tugs gently on my messy ponytail. “Why don’t you come stay with me?”
“At your brother’s?” Then I sigh, “Where would we sleep?”
“Where I sleep.” He shrugs. “We could get an air mattress, snuggle up together on the floor, be together all the time.” Pulling me in to him, he seems so sure. But Justin’s situation is no better than mine. He got kicked out of his parents’ house a couple months ago after his dad took a swing at him when he went to defend his mom from his father’s abuse. Now he mooches off his college-age brother, Brad, who lives with three friends in a house that reeks of marijuana, dirty socks, and expired Chinese food.
His “bedroom” is a rinky-dink secondhand couch that was left on the screened-in back porch by the previous tenants. It has more stains than my tie-dyed art projects from junior high. Some are beer—I can tell by the barley smell—but most are suspect.
The time I’ve spent there over the last three months has been hell, the space heater never reaching far enough to warm a substantial amount of space. There aren’t enough blankets to prevent the frigid air from squeezing into every invisible nook and cranny, even the ones you’d swear were covered. The few times I’ve stayed over, all of this was made worse by the fact that I would wake up to loud metal music, pot smoke, and the sorest throat ever, the chills running bone deep. Probably why I’m sick now. Even with winter behind us, the thought of staying over there causes me to shudder.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, not wanting to hurt his feelings.
My focus on how to make amends with Charlotte is at the forefront of my mind, even while we watch an afternoon talk show, which, without cable, is one of our only choices.
I must’ve fallen asleep, because when I wake up, an old blanket has been laid across my frame, and a bowl of chicken noodle soup is on the dusty coffee table next to me. Justin’s brought a couple packs of ramen back for the kids as well.
I smile, his thoughtful gesture appreciated.
The next day I feel fine, but the wave of nausea hits me out of nowhere, and I alternate between throwing up and sleeping. Between my fatigue and my illness, I’m hell bent on reconnecting with Charlotte. It’s not a matter of want; it’s a matter of need. I have to figure out a way to approach her and apologize for my bad attitude toward her kind gesture.
Without having minutes for my phone, I cannot contact her, and the number I found online is disconnected—probably an old cell number.
Torn, I don’t want to email her at work. That would be an invasion of privacy, since she hasn’t told me where she teaches. I don’t want to freak her out when she’s skittish enough.