Painful Truths

by Brian Spangler

  What’s he doing here?

  I ducked my head, dropping down the flight of stairs in a rush, not caring if I took anyone with me this time. Before I completely disappeared, I peered over the sill of the top step, easing my eyes up just past the steel edge and the face of chipped concrete. I hoped it was just my mind playing tricks on me.

  “Shit!” I blurted.

  Garrett looked beyond the subway entrance a moment and then approached the officer. He had replaced his phone with his badge, and was asking questions.

  It was him, but I couldn’t be sure he saw me. He might have been in the city for court, or something else.

  Just a coincidence.

  But I was lying to myself. In the pit of my gut, I knew Garrett’s presence wasn’t a fluke.

  I didn’t stay to find out more, though. I slipped into the recesses of the city’s subway system. I found comfort in the rail’s long, isolated tubes, the quiet noise, in riding the subway cars as they were chased by the smell of ozone. I melted into the surroundings, became one of many in the crowd, disappearing briefly from the world. There was safety here.

  NINETEEN

  PRACTICE. THAT’S WHAT A girl needs. That’s what I told myself as I arrived at the hot little disco that had once been a popular sports bar. There was a time when Steve and his friends wouldn’t miss a baseball game without getting a seat there, without a pitcher of beer and all the bar food they could eat. But that was a lifetime ago, and the only sports going on inside now included a little dancing, some sex play, and a game of faux assassinations of my own invention. I needed to practice, and treated that need like a doctor’s prescription. But like any drug, I had to be careful not to overindulge. The crunch of stones sounded under my wheels as and I turned off the street and into the club’s parking lot. A craving for the taste of whiskey and a small turn-on encouraged me to hurry and park.

  “Practice” might be too tame a word. The truth was I’d been playing a lot, and my favorite playmate was Skank—little miss heart-shaped tattoos—the girl who’d almost broken up my marriage before Steve even proposed. I’d found her one evening after Katie’s death, when I needed the club’s scene, and bought her a drink. What started as a chance encounter turned into a rehearsal. That is, I used her to rehearse how I’d approach a hit. Nerd had stepped in to help me on occasion, walking with me through the crucial motions, rehearsing the plans, but it wasn’t enough. I needed something real, something I could sink myself into, I needed flesh on flesh. And more than that, I needed someone unsuspecting and in a public place—just as if it were a real hit.

  Skank was perfect to practice with, to toy with for fun. And it helped that she was attracted to me—on the dance floor anyway. Her hands in my hair, a kiss on the nape of my neck, and a quick brush against me. I played with her, dipping my toe just over the line of passion, but then pulling back when the water felt too hot. My time with her was running short, though. To her, I was a tease, and lately I could sense her frustrations, sense that she wanted more, expected more. The parking lot was crowded, forcing me circle for a spot. It was early in the week for crowds, but it was never too early for Skank. She’d be there, dipping her chin toward me, slinking her hand onto mine, borrowing a sip of my drink and promising to give it back with a flick of her tongue.

  Practice. Just practice, I reminded myself.

  I found a spot. It was far enough from the door that I’d have a good walk, but I didn’t mind. The city’s frigid chill and the hit on Messenger were behind me. Tonight was my night to celebrate the win. I stepped into the early summer evening, the sky nearly dark, taking siege of our part of the world and wrestling the daylight away. I passed a wall of aluminum, a tourist bus with a placard showing through the glass of the door that read “Happy 21st Birthday.” Large, blocky letters in shiny, electric blue hung crooked and peeled from one of the corners. It was someone’s birthday all right, and a big birthday it was. The dance floor was going to be crowded, but that was okay. I wanted more bodies surrounding me; that gave me more to practice with, more variables in what could happen during an actual hit.

  I stopped before reaching the door and kicked at a stone, suddenly rethinking the night. I wasn’t alone. I wrapped my hand around my middle as if waiting to feel an approving stir. I was going to be a mother again, and this wasn’t how a mother should act. The smell of the bus exhaust brought back an image of my own mother, her narrow chin and wide eyes, the sound of her moans as she came with a stranger beneath her.

  Who am I kidding? This is exactly how my mother would act.

  The only mother I had. I learned it from her.

  “But you’re different,” I answered to myself. “This is practice . . . for work.” I nodded slowly and reached for the door. I entered the foyer, a small, dark cushion of space between the club and the outside. A sudden punch jabbed beneath my ribs, forcing me to lean against the wall. Swirling waves of raised stucco pressed into my bare arm, gently scratching me while I swayed and tried to shake the sudden pain.

  “Was that you?” I asked, but knew it couldn’t be the baby, not yet. It was still way too soon for me to feel anything. My hands went numb and I clenched them, thinking the anticipation of getting some practice was making my adrenaline pump. “Get a grip, would you?”

  A wave a nausea came next and I leaned harder into the stucco, waiting for the sickening churn to pass.

  Morning sickness?

  I’d had it with Michael, but it had never hit me with this kind of pain. I waited and kept a pleasant thought in my mind. Snacks had been an easy pregnancy—never got sick, not once.

  Does this mean we’re going to have another boy? I smiled. Another boy.

  But I would’ve felt the same pleasure if Michael and Snacks were going to have a little sister, I knew. The pain and nausea passed.

  Music reached my ears. I was ready. I wouldn’t stay long. I’d go home—draw a bath, float in the tub, and let the day drain out of me. When the club’s door opened up, two men stepped out—boys really—both of them in black shoes with thick heels, their ripped jeans hanging low below V-neck T-shirts one size too small. They wore their hair the same too, shaved on the sides and spiked high on top, no doubt in an attempt to add to their height. Carlos would have cringed.

  The young men laughed until they cried, sharing the punch line of a joke I didn’t hear. As they walked and chortled, one of them tapped his leg to the thrum of music bleeding from the open door. I caught the motion like a bug and felt my legs begin to move to the rhythm involuntarily. I decided to go in, promising myself and the baby it’d be a short stay. I rolled Needle around my thumb, thinking if I was here to practice then I’d really practice. Needle’s chamber was empty, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t use the syringe.

  “Just a small pinprick,” I said to the boys as they passed.

  “You bet!” One of them replied in a drunken slur.

  “I’m just going to prick her a little. Just enough to draw a drop of red. To paint with it, you know?”

  “Right on!” The other boy screamed as he shot his arms into the air, as if scoring a game-winning throw.

  I couldn’t help but laugh, remembering what it was like to be twenty-one.

  “I can be twenty-one tonight,” I mumbled with a hopeful swing in my voice, pulling my hair clip out to let my hair fall over my neck and face. I pushed the air from my lungs and ignored the lingering twinge in my side as I opened the topmost buttons on my blouse. I caught my reflection in a dark mirror and decided to thumb one more button down as well. I’d show a little more skin and the white lace of my bra. If this were a real hit, that is what I would have done anyway—set the bait. My reflection looked gray and sweaty, but I hoped it was just the mirror. A quick pinch of my cheeks brought some red into them, but another tick came from my stomach and I realized I felt feverish too, even a little light-headed.

  “You’re just excited.”

  Barn-size doors opened in front of me, and I moved inside. A rush o
f club air filled with booze, sweat, and disco smoke rolled over me like a storm. My eyes were closed, but I could still see the sharp lights racing from one side of the room to the next—the bluish strobes flashed in a pulse that matched the beat of the music. I began to rock my head, finding the rhythm, and entered the lair of the dance floor. Bodies swarmed around me—touching, grinding, moving as one to the music. I raised my arms high into the air and snapped my fingers. I let the seduction of the club pour into me like a magic elixir. At once I was revitalized. At once I was twenty-one again.

  TWENTY

  I LOST TIME. COMPLETELY lost it. I had no idea how long I’d been dancing, staying in one spot, my hands swinging, my body swaying. Once or twice the strong smell of a man’s cologne came near me, narrow hips grinding, the touch of fingers caressing, traveling up and down my sides. I’d step away from the motion, move along, but remained on the dance floor. I was baiting the trap with the patience of a seasoned hunter.

  I found a young couple and slid between them, briefly entering their dance, working our hips as one before slipping out. I turned to face them, grabbing their closing bodies as they locked eyes with each other and joined lips. A shallow pang of jealousy stirred, remembering what it used to be like—to feel that young, to have that driving lust for someone else. I closed my eyes to mere slits as I left them so I could see only the flash of lights; I timed my steps to the beat.

  My body felt wet, chilled with sweat and dampness even beneath my eyes. My heart galloped hard to the heavy bass, pounding beneath my breast like the cone of a speaker. I decided to stay as long as the music played, to disappear into a zone where I existed alone. But then I felt the soft touch of arms around my middle; when I peered down, I found Skank’s three-hearted hand.

  “You’re here,” I said to her, but my words sounded distant and lost, as if in an echo, ringing like a warbled cry. I shook my head, trying to clear my mind as it swam in musical confusion. I wrapped her arms around my body and leaned into her, thinking I could encourage a close dance, a grind that would give me the moment I needed with Needle.

  “You’re hot,” she yelled into my ear. I appreciated the compliment and pushed my ass into her, inviting her. She pulled away. “Not like that. I mean you are hot-hot! Are you feeling okay?”

  I nodded, ignoring her words. I reached behind myself to pull her closer to me, to glide with her on the dance floor. Her body moved with mine, our curves forming one smooth shape, and I stepped to the left and then back, seeing if she’d stay with me, timing my opportunity. We moved in perfect harmony. I sucked in a quick breath, feeling the chance come upon me. But when I reached for Needle, reached to prepare the syringe, the stabbing pain came back instead and I clumsily slipped forward and braced my side. My insides burned like hot coal. I let out a scream and collapsed, slumping against Skank. She held me.

  “Oh my God!” I yelled, dropping to my hands and knees. A fresh thrust of fire pinned me to the floor, held me prisoner. I glanced up to find Skank’s face staring back at me, her eyes sweet with concern and pity. A part of me wanted to be revolted, wanted to push her away. I was supposed to be the one with the power and control in whatever this strange relationship had become. She was a toy, someone I chose to use in an endless, sickening game of retribution.

  How pathetic am I? I thought and suddenly felt shame added to the digging pain in my gut. At some point, I’d found a friend in her and had confided in her—like I used to with Katie.

  “Help me, Theresa,” I begged.

  When I heard my voice calling out her name, I finally realized she’d become a friend, she’d become my new Katie—another girlfriend to unfairly play an unsuspecting role in my quirky fantasy games. And, like Katie, she didn’t know she was helping me. I’d used Katie because she had been the closest person to me; now that she was gone, the woman who’d been with my husband had taken her place.

  I’m pathetic.

  I tried to stand. Theresa knelt down by my side, cupping her hands beneath my arms, and lifted. Violent turmoil erupted in my body, sending my insides into a tumble. I cried out, screamed, my voice lost in the throes of a song’s crashing symbols and roaring horns.

  “Hold on, Amy,” Theresa said, and through the pain, I realized that I wasn’t referring to her as Skank anymore. Her name was Theresa. She was my friend. But my friend was disappearing, and the club lights and music were fading too. I saw nothing, but felt everything.

  Blackness.

  ***

  After the blackness, I saw chaos. Blue lights shuttering in and out of my eyes. The blur of masked faces, their voices clacking in my ears. I moaned, trying to tell the faceless bodies I was okay. When I tried to move, a pair of strong hands pushed me down. The music and the disco lights were gone. There was a different kind of rhythm, a different dance—with a deeper orchestration. Tubes and wires were swiftly plugged in. I heard someone yell “Vitals!” and understood that I had passed out.

  “I’m fine,” I insisted, trying to move again. A jolt of lightning seared my inside, setting fire to my middle. What came next was a guttural and raw sound—I was screaming.

  “Lay down, ma’am,” a young woman spoke in my ear.

  “What?” I tried to ask.

  “Talk to her,” the woman’s voice instructed, but not to me.

  Steve was near, his fingers holding mine. And in the storm of rhythmic disorder, I heard his voice. He was talking to Theresa, asking her questions like a detective—I could tell by the tone. But then his voice broke, and I heard him cry. The emotion gave me the chills, sent pins and needles crawling across my bare skin. I cried with him, but didn’t know why. His hand clutched mine, his touch trembling, fuzzy, and numb—like my understanding of what was happening.

  “I’m so sorry,” I heard Theresa say in a voice that was faint and sounded sad. “I had no idea.”

  Steve said nothing more then, but wept into my hand. The wetness on his face told me what had happened.

  An alarm rang out, drowning all other sounds.

  I could hear a heartbeat. Just one heartbeat, my heartbeat—not two.

  I’d lost our baby.

  And it was then, in that moment, I wished I’d heard none.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I COULD SMELL A memory. Clean bedsheets and medical tape, the heavy scent of antiseptic in the air. There was more to that memory—the sound of machines and speaking to a beautiful doctor whose hands had been inside my husband. I heard her words echo in my mind and felt the desperate flood of relief all over again when she told me my husband was alive. The memory was of Steve lying in a hospital bed, his body wrapped in gauzy white bandages and my body exhausted from having waited to find out if he had survived. And in that memory’s final moment, I saw myself fall to my knees and take his outstretched hand in mine.

  The hospital? I tried to wake myself, but couldn’t. A wave of utter exhaustion came over me like I’d never felt before. Even if I could have sat up and opened my eyes, I didn’t want to. There was safety in the darkness—safety in not knowing the truth.

  It was a dream, just a dream, I thought, remembering the club and Theresa and Steve. It was just a bad dream. Our baby is fine.

  I saw a cloud of fuzzy images as I peered into the unfamiliar surroundings. A plastic tube snaked up and around my elbow, a needle burrowed beneath my skin. Was that in my dream? An air bubble danced inside the tube, shaking against a flow of liquid pouring into my body.

  As the dreamy confusion lingered, I felt squeamish at the sight of the bandage covering the needle—it was stained with old blood that had oozed and hardened. There was more, though. I wasn’t alone. There was activity around me. Long hospital gowns made up of pale blue and green and orange, their bodies passing in a paisley blur. I saw others too, dressed in white and wearing caps to cover their heads while plastic shields guarded their faces. I decided that these were alien beings from another planet. I strained to get up and run from whatever hell I’d dreamed up now. I only needed to get to m
y feet.

  Violence jabbed my insides. I cried out, doubling over as burning acid rose up and spewed from my mouth in a hot, vile gush. I gagged and coughed, feeling the sting of it pass through my nose. An alien came to my side and peppered my ear with soft, comforting words while she wiped my lips dry. The sound of her voice was indeed soothing, so I laid back, bracing again as the pain held me against the bed pillows like a prisoner. I clutched the cold metal rails, straining to fend off another wave. I clenched, bit down, and screamed. I was being split in two.

  The memory returned, and I graciously slipped back into the subconscious escape. I heard myself weep into the warm crook between Steve’s jaw and chest. I’d laid next to him, my body fitting his as he talked to me, consoled me, told me that he’d go to law school and that he’d never get shot again. We slept in his hospital bed together for hours, coming to terms with what had happened to him.

  My eyes sprang open when a rush of heat entered my arm.

  Run! I demanded of myself. But in this new nightmare, my legs were gone, disconnected, taken from me. I wasn’t in my memory anymore, and Steve disappeared from my thoughts. I was waking up. Fire coursed into my arm and traveled to my shoulder like a river of lava before finally entering my skull. Whatever they had injected set my brain ablaze with a new kind of pain.

  I cringed as another alien appeared before me and hung a small, clear bag above my bed, her thumb squeezing its red lettering until it bulged like a water balloon. She nodded her blank face, assuring me the pain would go away with this medicine—her emphasis on “this medicine,” but I didn’t believe her. I didn’t believe anything could take away the torture. And then I heard the faint sound of machines and the distant calls for doctors and nurses, and I realized that Steve wasn’t the patient—I was.