Chapter 29
“I
will sue the pants off you, do you hear me?” Debbie slammed the phone down. Her life was falling apart.
“What are you complaining about now?” Don asked, his voiced slurred already. It was noon.
“What do you care? As long as you have that bottle to wrap your lips around, you're as happy as a traveling salesman with the farmer's daughter, aren't you?”
Debbie was in their bedroom, digging through some boxes at the back of the closet.
“What are you looking for?”
“If you must know, I have a banker's box full of bank statements in here. I need to look at them. If you'd stay sober long enough to have a decent conversation, you would know we're in deep shit, Don. The rug is about to be pulled out from under me. You too.” She found the box in question and hefted it onto their bed, white sheets and all.
“What are you talking about, Debbie? Does everything always have to be such a frigging drama with you?”
“Well, well, I am impressed. You can speak more than three words at a time.”
“I'm not drunk. I know you find that hard to believe, but I haven't had anything to drink today.”
“You sure as hell sounded drunk about two seconds ago. Are you pissing it out that fast?” Debbie shot a look over her shoulder. Don was pacing the room.
“I'm serious. Look at my hands.” He held his hands out in front of him. He could barely control the trembling.
“Then go have another drink. Listen, my life is falling apart. You couldn't have picked a worse time to go on the wagon. Again.” She thumbed through the file folders in the box. “How many times has it been now? I've lost count.”
“Stop for just one minute. I think I have something you might want to hear. Our lovely daughter called looking for you. She was screaming and crying.”
“Which one?” Debbie asked, not really interested in either of her girls at the moment. She had more important things to worry about.
“You have to ask?” Don plopped down on the bed, causing the box of papers to topple over.
“Dammit, you can put this back. I'm off to the bank.” Debbie stuffed the bank statements in her purse.
“Sara is pregnant.”
“Says who?” She didn't have time for Sara's dramatics.
“She called from the doctor's office. She wanted to talk to her mommy.” Don said the last word in a babylike voice.
“You don't like Sara, do you? You never have. It's always been Emily, Emily, Emily.” Debbie laughed. “If you only knew. Tell Sara to call my cell if she calls back. I've got to get to the bank. Someone is out to destroy me, and I'm going to find out who.”
Don watched her. “Debbie, what did you mean by that remark you just made?”
She rolled her eyes. “Kiss off, Don. I'm outta here.” She swung her purse across her shoulder like it weighed a ton.
“I know Emily isn't my daughter.”
For once Debbie didn't have a smart comeback. She stopped and turned to look at her husband.
“What?”
“Do you really believe I'm that dumb? I might be a drunk, but I am not a stupid one. Come on, Deb. Look at Emily, then look at Sara. While Sara is the spitting image of you, Emily is Alex Rocket made over. The female version.”
The room was silent. “What would you like for me to say?” Debbie asked.
“Nothing, because there is nothing to say. You seduced my best friend.”
“Just remember, your best friend molested our daughter, or have you forgotten in all that alcohol fog you've lived in for the past three years?”
“Despite what you think, I'm not drunk every hour of the day. I am drunk most of the time, I'll admit. Did you ever wonder why I started drinking so heavily? Did you ever care to find out if I had a problem?” He held his hand out. “Don't answer. I already know what you'll say.”
“Because we've had this same conversation a thousand times, Don. You drink because you're a failure. You lost your job, you fell into a sinkhole. End of story. Not my fault.”
“Think, goddamn it!”
“I don't know what you're trying to tell me, so it'd be best if you just spit it out. I have got to go to the bank.”
“Yes, I know. You've told me enough. You're going to stay here and listen to what I have to say. The bank can wait.”
Debbie sat down on the edge of the bed. She took her purse off her shoulder and set it by her feet. She held out her arms as if she were embracing the world. “Okay. I'm all yours. Say whatever it is you need to say, so I can get the hell out of here.”
“I know what you and Sara did. I have proof.” Debbie fumbled with her watch. She laughed, but it wasn't her usual smart-ass laugh. “Whatever. I have no idea what you're talking about, Don.”
“Yes, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Don't deny it. Stop this damned lie that you're living. I can't take this crap anymore. Do you ever stop and think that you killed a man?” Don stumbled over to the bed, grabbing Debbie's arm. “I'd love to smack your goddamn face. I've wanted to for years, but I won't give you the satisfaction. Get the hell out of here. Now!”
Debbie raced out of the room so fast, Don expected to see smoke in her wake. She was a real prize. He'd just confronted her with the worst news possible. She didn't give a damn. Someone had to. He was so very tired of his life. If he could have only started over, he would never, ever, not in a million years, have married the woman he'd tied himself to. He'd rather be a monk.
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Debbie tried to light a cigarette as she drove to her office. Her hands shook worse than Don's had. She pushed the lighter in again. She removed it, this time able to light the wobbling cigarette.
The shit had hit the proverbial fan, and she was directly in the line of fire. She could deal with Don; he was a drunk, everyone knew it. If he ran his mouth to his cronies at the club, they'd chalk it up to too much to drink.
Sara was pregnant. Debbie would insist she get an abortion. No way was she taking care of another brat. She would talk to her tonight. She was supposed to be on birth control. At twenty, she should know better.
Damn, just one more complication I'll have to take care of. Why does life have to be so hard? No, why did I marry such a wimp? Why is my daughter such a tramp? Ironic, that Emily is the only decent one in the bunch, besides me
.
She parked in her reserved parking place. They weren't expecting her. More than likely she'd catch them lazing about when they could be making her money. The mood she was in, she'd fire them all.
She bolted through the front door. Looking around the front office, all appeared normal. For once. She went to her office to get the rest of the bank statements.
“Melanie.” Debbie pushed the intercom button from her office.
“Yes, Mrs. Winter.”
“Has Sara called?”
“Six times. I told her to try your cell phone. She said you had it turned off.”
Debbie grabbed her phone from her pocketbook. She flipped it open. Damn, she'd forgotten to turn it on. “Yes, it seems I forgot. Tell her if she calls againâ”
“Sorry to interrupt, but Sara is here, Mrs. Winter. She's in the kitchen.”
“Oh, well, thanks.”
Debbie walked down the hall to the kitchen. Figuresâwhere there was food there was Sara. She should insist on her having that new gastric bypass surgery all the fat movie stars were having. After the abortion.
“Mommy,” Sara cried, as Debbie entered the room. “Oh, it's so terrible, and so not my fault. I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm still a girl. I told Joshua, but he . . . He raped me. Oh, Mommy, what am I going to do?”
“Oh shut up. For Pete's sake. I know you're knocked up. You can have an abortion.”
Sara stopped crying.
She would make one heck of an actress,
Debbie thought.
Of course, as fat as she is, she won't get the chance someone like Emily could.
“Who told you?” Sara asked, all traces of whining gone.
“Your father. Exactly how many people have you told, Sara? You don't want this getting out. It could work against you, if you know what I mean.”
“I don't know what you're talking about, Mommy.” Sara stuffed a blueberry muffin into her mouth.
“You need to get your act together. Don't tell everyone you meet about this. Now, how far along are you?” This could be taken care of. It would take a bit of orchestrating, but Debbie was good at this.
“The doctor said I was about twenty-two weeks.” Sara unwrapped another muffin.
“Oh, my God!”
“What's wrong with that? You asked me, and I told you.” She crammed half the muffin in her mouth.
“What in the hell do you do with the allowance I give you every month, besides eat? Did you forget to buy your birth control pills, or did you eat those, too? What the hell am I going to do now? You've really made a mess of things, Sara. You should be more like your sister. At least she has the good sense not to go and get herself pregnant by some loser piece-of-crap boyfriend!”
Sara looked at her mother. “Josh isn't a loser!” Debbie closed the door. No doubt the office staff was getting another earful of Sara's moaning and groaning.
Debbie yanked what was left of the muffin out of Sara's hand. “Sit down and shut up.”
Sara did as she was told. Debbie sat across from her in a metal chair. Sara was so huge, she had to sit on the small love seat. “It's illegal to abort a fetus at twenty-two weeks. And don't give me any of your âMommy' crap, okay? You're twenty years old! It's time you acted like an adult. It is too late for you to abort this child! Does that mean anything at all to you?”
Sara seemed puzzled. Debbie knew Sara was a bit slow, but most of it was an act.
Hell, she's as devious and cunning as I am.
“I guess I'll have to have a baby. Me and Josh can get married. You and Daddy will have a grandkid.”
“It's not quite that simple. God.” Debbie stood and started pacing. She was as bad as her drunken husband. Her world was crashing around her. “Sara, Josh is a loser. He quit school in the eighth grade. I doubt if he even knows what a sperm is. His parents live in a bus, Sara. Do you want a child of yours to be raised like a homeless person? Do you?”
“It's not so bad. I stay there sometimes. We build fires and roast hot dogs. I love them when they're burned just a tinge.”
Sara was truly a genetic screwup.
“Well, no daughter of mine is going to raise her child in a goddamn bus. Do you understand me? You will not under any condition marry that hot dogâroasting uneducated moron you call your boyfriend. Can't you just imagine what kind of father he would make?”
Sara smiled. “Couldn't be any worse than Daddy. All he does is drink and go to that stupid club.”
Debbie thought Sara had a point, but she wasn't going to give her credit for it.
“Your father is a very well-educated man. He's had some issues with alcohol in the past, but he's getting things under control. Now I want you to go home. I'm going to make sure you get the proper medical care while you're pregnant. Then, the very second you deliver that moron you're bound to give birth to, you will put it up for adoption. Is that understood?”
“But, Mommy, what if Josh wants this baby?”
“Sara, do you or Josh have any clue how much it costs to raise a child? No, don't answer that. You don't, and I'm sure he and his parents are clueless. And I am not so young that I'm ready to raise another child.”
“You'd be a grandmother. You wouldn't have to.”
Sara was truly simple.
“And I am too young to be a grandmother! You will do as I tell you or else!”
“Or else what, Mommy? You'll tell on me for making up all those lies about Uncle Alex? Lies that you made me tell. No, don't answer that, Mommy.”
“Go home, Sara. I want you to spend some time with your father today.”
“But what about me? What am I supposed to tell Josh?”
“Tell him to keep his pecker in his pants for a while, that's what you can tell him. Now get out of my sight. I've got to clean up another mess.”
Sara inhaled, then exhaled. Her breath slapped Debbie in the face like old tuna.
“Go home and shower, Sara. Brush your teeth. I'll be there in a while.”
“Okay, Mommy.”
After Sara left, Debbie felt like she'd been caught in a whirlwind. She should have had her tested years ago. She had to be borderline retarded to act the way she did.