From there, a Holiday Inn. I lay on the bed and stare at the ceiling.
I spend another month doing the same, just to be sure. Each hotel I book is a few miles closer to… I was going to say home but I don't know if it's home yet. I don't know where Diana has gone. Every day I pick another charity, send them some money.
After a quick stop in Philadelphia, I drive to the museum.
The gates are open. I'm taking a risk, here. I shouldn't allow myself to be seen anywhere near this place.
I ring the doorbell twice before Carol answers.
Somehow she does not seem at all surprised to see me.
"Whatever you've been doing, I hope it was important."
"I-"
"Shut up, I don't want to hear your voice. My daughter-"
"Mom? Who-"
Diana descends the stairs, and that shredded hollow feeling in my chest goes away all at once. I'd grown so used to hurting all the time I'd forgotten what it was like not too. She just stares at me as she steps to the bottom of the stairs. I stare back. I left here three months ago.
When I left she wasn't pregnant. She instinctively touches her stomach. She's not huge yet but that belly bump can't be anything else. I squeeze my hands into fists, try to say something but all at once my throat is packed with sand and I can't push any words through it. Her mother sighs deeply and steps out of the way, and I brush past her, into the house. I walk to Diana.
"You son of a bitch," she snaps, and slaps me. Hard. So hard I stumble and almost go down.
"Oh my God, I'm sorry," she cries out, grabbing my arm. "Your leg, I forgot-"
"I'm fine, I-"
"Good," she cuts me off before she hauls off and slaps me again with the other hand, and then once more for good measure. I catch the next one, grasping her wrist.
"I had to-"
"I know," she chokes out.
"You're-"
"Yeah."
"Is it mine-"
She slaps me.
I rub my cheek. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm just…
I… with you… I'm going to be a…"
"Right," she says, wryly. "Yeah, they're yours. Dad."
I… I feel funny. I feel like I did when I was bleeding out. I have to lean on something. I hear a grunt from Diana's mother when I lean on some old table, pull my hand off and lean on the wall. She's giving me a death stare.
I swallow, hard. "They?"
"Yeah. Congratulations. We're having twins."
"What about… are you still going to college?"
"Next year. I'm talking a year off. Because you got me pregnant."
I swallow, hard.
Diana cracks a smile.
We're going to be okay. Sure, I gave away
about ninety percent of the money. Rob from the rich, give to the poor. I figure the ten million or so I kept should set us up for a while.
Ten million minus the engagement ring in my pocket, I mean.
Funny how that works. David McCay has only been around for three months, and now he's getting married.
I do the whole thing. I kneel. I present her the ring. Her mother groans.
Diana says yes.
After
she slaps me again.
Thank you for reading
Mockingbird
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Copyright 2014 © Abigail Graham
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
1.
Jennifer packed her messenger bag. In went her laptop, her binder full of lesson plans, and her battered, dog-eared copy of the twelfth grade English textbook. After she snapped the flap down and tightened the bag up on her back, she stopped and sighed. It was the first day of school. First day number four. She hoped she’d pull off her first day this year without tearing up.
This was the third year Jennifer faced life alone. She shifted on her feet, wriggling her toes in her sneakers and flexing her riding gloves, working up the will to open the front door. Her husband Franklin did the honors for her four years ago. Her departure on the very first day of her teaching career was domestic bliss in its purest form. He woke up early and roused her from sleep with blueberry pancakes. He kissed her on the cheek and soothed her frayed nerves by reassuring her that she’d do a fine job and be a good teacher. The kids would love her.
Now she was alone with mounting dread and memories, a screeching alarm clock woke her for an oatmeal bar and orange juice chugged straight from the carton, a quick shower and a coordinated selection from her predominantly neutral wardrobe.
A favorite picture of Franklin by the door was the only thing left to say goodbye on her way to work. Niagara Falls served as the background to their honeymoon photo, and the way the sun caught the water made everything glow like a cheesy painter’s view of heaven. Big dark sunglasses hid Jennifer’s eyes, and unusually unkempt hair framed her grin. Her husband had a silly, boyish smile that infected everybody around him.
The picture filled her with joy when Franklin was alive. Looking at it now brought lingering doubt and guilt.
Why am I alive, and you’re not?
Jennifer took a deep breath.
I can do this. I have a job to do.
Franklin’s voice drifted from the back of her mind.
You can do it, kiddo
. She was almost two years older than her husband. That was their little joke. She tightened her pads and riding gloves and strapped down her helmet.
She scrubbed at her eyes, sucked in another breath, and yanked the door open.
Humid August air and a wet smell hinting at a coming thunderstorm greeted Jennifer on the front porch. She shrugged to shift the bag’s weight before locking the door, and then lifted her trusty three-speed from the front porch to the sidewalk. As soon as she stepped off the old warped wood, it hit her.
Did you leave the stove on?
Is the door locked? Did you turn the bathroom fan off? Did you leave a lesson plan on the table?
Jennifer shook her head. Every single time she left the house, she had to do this. Sighing with resignation, she checked the door again and went through a mental checklist. She had not cooked on the stove in a week, the door was clearly locked, the bathroom fan had a fuse if it overheated, and she never put the lesson plans
on
the table. They were in her bag. Rolling her shoulders with a renewed confidence, she stumbled as she turned and almost bolted back to the house.
A black Dodge rolled down the street and stopped in front of the neighbors’ mailbox. The illegal blacked out windows hid its interior, but she knew who was driving. She froze, then moved deliberately slow and ignored the threat the way she’d ignore a wasp buzzing about her head.
You leave me, I leave you be.
Her trembling hands choked the handlebars as she pedaled. Jennifer could ride for an hour ninety-degree heat without breaking a sweat, but perspiration beaded between her shoulder blades. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed the Dodge followed behind. She leaned into the bike and pumped harder on the pedals to increase her speed. The car kept pace.
The driver shadowed her as she stopped at the first intersection and pedaled across Commerce Street, the main drag. No one was out this early in the morning, at least not in this part of town. Thick silence was broken only by the thick rumble from the car, rolling along behind her.
Shimmering beyond rising waves of heat was the high school. She would be safe once she made it to work.
After she reached the top of the hill, she sat up on the seat and eased up on the pedals to coast downhill. She was almost there. The school meant people: other teachers, students, and most important, a burly state policeman who served as the school’s resource officer. She would be safe at the school.
Exhaust roared out of the Dodge as it launched past her left elbow by maybe a foot. Her heart jumped into her throat. The car swerved left and then right before coming to a lurching stop that blocked the road. Panicking, Jennifer choked on the brake as hard as she could. The font wheel locked and the handlebars jerked in her hand. The handlebars came alive in her hands. The bike went down and she went with it.
She put her feet down to catch herself, and a shock of white hot pain shot up her leg as her bad ankle folded inwards and she went down. Her arm landed on the pavement and the loose gravel tore open her skin as she rolled onto her back.
The car doors simultaneously swung open and the car rocked on its springs as Grayson Carlyle stepped out from the driver’s side. His passenger stood up and slipped on a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Elliot Katzenberg, her brother-in-law, nudged her bicycle with his foot. Jennifer shifted into a sitting position and looked up at him while ice spread through her veins.
“You look like you could use a ride,” he said.
She looked at Elliot, then to Grayson, and then back to Elliot. Her cell phone was in her hip pocket. Even if the fall didn’t crush it to pieces, it offered little help. She couldn’t call the police. Grayson’s father was the chief of police. Elliot’s uncle was the mayor. His father was a senator. Jennifer glanced around the deserted street. There weren’t any witnesses. Instinct drove her to skid backwards on the street, pushing with her heels and hands. Her ankle hurt like hell.
Elliot offered his hand.
“Come on.”
Jennifer pushed herself out of his reach and grit her teeth against the pain as she stood. She would die before she let herself be in an enclosed space with Elliot Katzenberg ever again. She learned her lesson the first time. Hobbling over to the bike, she picked it up and start wheeling past the car.
Elliot calmly reached out and seized her hair. Frizzy auburn curls, woven into a single loose braid, hung to her waist. When Elliot’s fingers closed around it and tugged, the pull on her scalp froze her still as liquid terror swirled in her stomach. She let out a little whimper.
His voice clawed its way from memory to the forefront of her mind, stinking of grain alcohol and cheap fruit punch.
Shut up, Jenny
.
“Let go of me,” she said.
The rational part of her mind was rapidly losing to the part of her that wanted to shriek, punch him in the face, and somehow hope he’d let go. She’d never outrun both men with an injured ankle. Elliot was the quarterback in high school. She knew from experience kicking him in the belly only made him mad. The first time she tried that, he hit her harder. His younger brother screamed his lungs out to get everyone else’s attention at the party to finally pry him off her. Franklin wasn’t there to save her this time.
“Get in the car,” said Elliot. “I’m giving you a ride.”
Fight-or-flight won out. Jennifer tried to pull her hair out of his grip by jerking her head, but his hand tightened and yanked her back. She grabbed at his wrist, trying to soften the pull on her scalp. He turned and pushed her towards the open car. Her ankle sent pain up her leg, and she let out a scream. Grayson kicked the front seat forward to shove her in the back seat. Through the corner of her eye, she saw something moving towards them. The two men spotted it too, and all three stopped their movements.
A long sleek car rolled down the street and came to a stop behind her fallen bicycle. The expensive car looked so out of place that she could hardly believe it was there. The softly purring engine went silent and the driver’s door swung open.
“Who the hell is that?” Elliot looked at Grayson, who shrugged in response.
The driver was almost as tall as Grayson, but about half as wide, with a powerful angular build. His green eyes looked right at her, and she saw a flash of something that resembled recognition. Of all the things to think at that moment, she thought he had pretty eyes, set in a narrow clean-shaven face framed by long dark hair tied loosely behind his neck. He looked out of place dressed in a salmon polo shirt and khakis, like he’d be better suited to a uniform, or maybe a suit of armor. He walked up to Elliot.
“What are you doing?”
“What are you, the crossing guard?” said Elliot. “Gray, get rid of him.”
Grayson put a meaty hand on the stranger’s shoulder and gave him a little shove. The stranger looked at him with more curiosity than anything else. Jennifer’s breath came in quick, short gasps, and even though it was futile, her good leg trembled to run. The stranger stared at Grayson.
“You really don’t want to do that,” he said, then turned to Elliot. “Take your hand off Miss K.”