by Lisa Duffy
He nods. “Jimmy’s on his way over. I called him . . . you know, to ask for his help. He was really great about it.” He looks over at me. “I’m sorry about all that with him. It was just shit between him and me. He let me down a lot before he got sober. Made promises he didn’t keep. Lied. Stole. There isn’t a lot he didn’t do—let me put it that way. I didn’t want him near you—not that you can’t take care of yourself, so don’t look at me like that. Anyway. It didn’t occur to me until I woke up sitting in the fucking police station that I was Jimmy. On the way to becoming him, at least.”
Bent is on the other side of the room on his cell phone, and he glances over at me, and I point to the sign that says no cell phone use, but he’s doesn’t seem to notice me, and when he hangs up, his face is white, colorless. And then he turns, and someone is hugging him, her arms are around his waist, her face pressed into his chest, crying, it seems.
And when she lifts her head, it takes me a second to realize, the woman sobbing in my father’s arms is Quinn.
26
Quinn
The official cause of death is severe brain injury—not suicide, as Quinn suspects. She doesn’t know if that’s accurate. Perhaps he lost control of the car. And perhaps he only meant to numb his mind for the night, to silence the demons that spoke to him when it was too quiet, but the truck he was driving hit the tree at the top of the street. The scrape of metal she heard was the two trucks colliding, but the thundering blast was John’s truck careening off into an enormous cherry tree, nearly slicing it in two.
The last medical evaluation of John only proved to Quinn that he lied to the doctor—negative for any symptoms of post-traumatic stress syndrome. On paper, John was fit and ready to serve—not even a trace of the alcohol and painkillers in his blood the night his life ended.
But that doesn’t surprise her—even the handful of soldiers she spoke with who’d been with John the past several weeks in training said he seemed happy; focused, alert, intense were some of the words used to describe him. She knew they were telling the truth—he only struggled when he was home. In civilian life.
Where there were no orders to follow or battles to win or brothers who would die for you.
Madeline had offered her house as a gathering spot after the burial, and now Quinn is busying herself putting finger sandwiches on a platter to avoid John’s mother.
Susan sits in one of the folding chairs in the living room, sniffing and dabbing a tissue to her eyes, slumped against her husband while he talks animatedly at Bent, who’s nodding absentmindedly and clearing his throat every several minutes.
“He’s not listening to a word that guy’s saying,” Libby mutters to Quinn.
“What’s with the wife’s lips?” Desiree whispers, turning in her seat so only they can see her face, pursing her lips so they’re absurdly pronounced, and Libby snorts, covers her face with her hand.
“Those are his parents!” Lucy hisses from behind the island where she’s slicing a ham. “I’m sorry, Quinn.” She cuts her eyes at Desiree.
Madeline is standing next to her, and she leans forward, peering into the living room at Susan and sliding her eyes over to Desiree in agreement behind Lucy’s back.
“No—it’s fine. John’s probably laughing somewhere up there hearing you say that. He hated all the stuff she did to her face.”
“Does she know?” Madeline blurts, pointing at Quinn’s middle. She looks over at Lucy, who closes her eyes briefly.
“Damn it. Sorry, Luce—that’s none of my business, Quinn.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with the question,” Desiree says. “I mean, you’re not showing yet, but that clock is ticking, and pretty soon, BAM!” She puffs her cheeks out and puts her hands far out in front of her flat stomach.
Lucy scowls. “Pregnancy is a magical time for most women. Don’t listen to her, Quinn—she has issues.”
“I hated it,” Madeline offers. “Felt like an enormous elephant.”
“I don’t have any issues—not every woman has to buy into the whole marriage and kids equals everlasting bliss bullshit, Lucy.”
“Oh, stop it,” Lucy hisses. “The only one who has a problem with you not wanting to get married and have kids is you. It’s not an issue that you don’t want to—it’s an issue that you talk about it incessantly. Everyone is sick and tired of hearing about it. Get married or don’t. Have kids or don’t—but please, shut up about it!”
Desiree pretends she doesn’t hear Lucy and looks at Quinn.
“So . . . does she know or not?”
Quinn shakes her head. “It hasn’t really seemed real. But I’m starting to show. I put on a skirt today that I’ve had forever, and I couldn’t button the top.” She looks up at them. “So . . . it’s really real.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Madeline poke Lucy’s arm. Lucy looks at her and gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head.
“What are you two making faces about?” Desiree asks accusingly.
“Let’s show her. Come on, Luce—I can’t wait anymore,” Madeline pleads.
“There’s a roomful of people out there—”
Madeline waves her off. “If we go through the den, nobody will even know. Come on, you guys,” she says, and disappears with Lucy following closely behind.
Quinn looks at Libby, who shrugs and stands up, and they traipse single file through the den and up the carpeted staircase to the wide hallway on the second floor.
Madeline is waiting in front of the guest room, and she pushes open the door dramatically and sweeps her arm forward, motioning for Quinn to follow her.
Inside, Madeline moves to the corner next to Lucy, both looking at Quinn with hopeful expressions.
The room has been transformed into a nursery—a pale soothing sage on the walls, the once-dark walnut floor covered wall to wall with a soft, plush rug that Quinn’s feet sink into. There’s a crib against the wall, a mobile above it, and blankets folded neatly on the sheet-covered mattress. A changing table sits next to it, the shelves on the bottom stocked with diapers, wipes, and an assortment of baby-related products.
In the corner is a bed so inviting she has the urge to walk over and lie down, a pillow in the center embroidered with a Q.
Libby walks over to the glider on the far side of the room and sits down in it, rocking slowly back and forth.
“Impressive,” she says, studying the room.
Quinn can’t speak, a sob forming in her throat. She wipes a tear from her face, lets her fingers graze over the family of stuffed animals arranged on the small bench next to her leg.
“Are you surprised?” Madeline asks, clapping her hands. “I was so nervous you were going to catch us doing this last week!”
“Wait—I’m confused.” Desiree looks from Madeline to Quinn. “Are you moving in here?”
Quinn is startled by the question and pauses, looking from Madeline to Lucy.
“She’s not moving,” Libby scoffs. “Right, Quinn? I mean, that’s crazy.”
Madeline steps forward. “I’m not suggesting anything, Quinn—Lucy and I started this room before John . . .” She pauses. “I know you told me you wanted to keep working after, and I wanted you to have a room if you decided to bring the baby with you instead of having to find alternate care. But if you want to move in here—with what’s happened—I would love to have you. Lucy and I talked about it—and you know the boys would love it too. And I could help with the baby . . .”
“She already has a home,” Libby blurts, her voice loud in the small room.
“Why did the two of you talk about it?” Desiree asks, looking from Madeline to Lucy. She squints at them, and her eyes go wide. “Wait . . . are you guys, like . . . together? As in, like, a couple?”
There’s a long moment when nobody speaks, and suddenly Quinn’s aware that someone is standing behind her.
She turns and sees Bent standing next to the changing table holding a stuffed bunny with long arms and le
gs, Thumper stitched on its chest.
He looks at the crib, a line forming between his eyes. Libby storms past him, brushing his shoulder as she walks out the door, her footsteps heavy on the stairs.
“Libs?” he calls and walks to the door and looks out and turns back to them. “There’s some sort of beeping in the kitchen, and I didn’t know what it was—”
“Oh—the rolls!” Madeline throws up her hands and hurries out of the room.
Lucy shifts her eyes to Quinn. “We’ll be downstairs,” she says, and lifts her chin at Desiree, who follows Lucy out of the room.
They stand in the room across from each other. In the silence, Quinn hears the clock shaped like a moon on the wall, ticking away time. Bent looks over at her.
“Is your boss having a baby?” he asks.
Quinn takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I’m pregnant.”
He blinks, leans forward like he doesn’t understand.
“Bent?”
“Yeah—I heard you.” His face is blank, stunned.
“It’s not . . .” Her face flames. The word yours refusing to pass her lips. “I didn’t find out until after John disappeared,” she says quietly.
He rubs his forehead. “But he’s been gone for months. When did you find out—I mean . . . how did they do all this?”
“I’ve known for a while. I just needed time to process it.”
He shakes his head. “Wait, were you when we . . .” He stops. “The night we were together, you knew?”
“Bent, it’s complicated—”
“No.” His face turns hard. “It’s a simple question. Did you know?”
“Yes, but it’s not like I decided—”
“Jesus! You didn’t think I might have wanted to know that?”
“It just happened. It’s not like I planned—”
“Oh—I’m aware it just happened, Quinn. Believe me. Every fucking day I’m aware it happened. He was my friend . . .” He bends over, puts his hands on his knees.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you. I was having feelings for you, and then we were dancing and—”
He straightens, a look on his face that makes her stop talking, as though something’s just occurred to him.
“What? Wait a second, here. This whole time I’ve been thinking this was all my fault. You had feelings for me? So . . . what was I, then—your backup plan? Just in case John didn’t come back?”
He’s shouting now, and the words slam into her, push her back against the wall.
It takes her a minute to hear what he’s said. Even then, she doesn’t believe it.
“You didn’t just say that to me. Tell me you didn’t just say that to me.”
“What did you tell John the night he showed up? Huh? That you had feelings for me, but hey, welcome home. Let’s play house again!”
“That’s not fair. He was my husband—and I wanted time to think before I talked to him. Let’s not pretend you didn’t know how to get in touch with him. I knew that you could find him—”
“And I would have called him! I would have told him to come home!”
“I didn’t want him to come home!” she shouts, the words slipping out. The minute she says it, she’s knows it’s true. And suddenly she can’t stop herself from talking. All the words she couldn’t find these past months pouring out of her.
“That day you showed up at my house after he left—I was terrified. Lost. And you know why? Because I had no idea what I wanted. Not John—me! Because I didn’t know who I was outside of us—this couple that we had been since high school. Along the way, John and I grew up. But we didn’t grow together. We wanted different things. Different lives. What you said that night—that he was a good soldier, just not a good husband—I didn’t allow myself to feel that until it was out there. To really take the time to think about what I wanted. To think about what I want.”
She looks at him, waits until he meets her eyes.
“I was going to tell John about the baby. But we were over. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was pregnant. But I’m not sorry about that night we were together.”
He looks as though he might say something, but he’s silent. He stares at her until he turns, tosses the stuffed animal on the bench, where it bounces and falls to the floor.
She’s left standing in the nursery alone, the bunny at her feet, one arm flopped over his face, covering his eyes, as though he can’t bear to watch.
27
Libby
The guy in the passenger seat of the truck isn’t doing jail time, and the driver got a hefty fine, but he’s sent to rehab instead of prison, and this seems to be the only thing comforting Flynn—he’s told me at least a dozen times in the ten minutes I’ve been in the car with him.
“I should’ve been in that truck. It was my idea to drive by your street!” he says again, and I look over at him.
“What’s that look for?” he asks.
“I’m not saying it isn’t awful—but it’s not like it was your fault. You were at the police station when it happened.”
“Only because of your father! You know I could’ve kissed any scholarships goodbye. And Walsh’s arm is in pieces—they put a steel rod in it. I mean, I might’ve never played basketball again if your father hadn’t made me stay out of the truck—”
“Flynn—stop! You’ve said it, like, a million times. I can’t listen to you gush about Bent every time we’re together. Where are we going anyway?”
When Flynn picked me up, he said he had an errand to run, and he needed me to come with him, and now we’re crossing the tracks on the other side of town, where there’s only the abandoned warehouses and the commuter rail station.
He ignores me and pulls into the train station parking lot and over to the drop-off area. Outside my window, clusters of people are standing on the outdoor platform, waiting for the train. He puts the car in park, points to something outside my window.
I follow his finger to a guy in a camouflage uniform sitting on the bench, his face turned away from us, looking down the tracks, a canvas military bag upright between his legs.
“Hurry up,” Flynn says. “Train’s coming.”
I look at him. “Flynn, I’m fine—you don’t need to—”
“I’m not doing it for you,” he says, and leans forward, looking past me to his brother. “I’m doing it for him. Go—I’ll wait here.”
I get out of the truck and shut the door. The noise makes Jimmy turn, and when he sees me, he stands up, pulls the hat off his head, and holds it between his hands while I walk over to him.
When I reach him, he looks over his shoulder at the train coming to a halt, the doors opening.
“I wasn’t sure if you got my messages,” he says.
“I did. All five of them. The texts too.”
He blushes, looks down at his feet. “Sorry about that. I don’t want any doubt in your mind that I know I acted like a jerk.”
“Well, you weren’t alone in that.” I glance over at Flynn’s car.
“I wish I could make it up to you—”
“Come home,” I interrupt. “Come home in one piece and tell me everything that happened. Every single thing. That’s how you can make it up to me.”
The train horn sounds, and he grabs his bag, puts his free arm around my shoulders and kisses my cheek, his breath whistling past my ear, and then he’s jogging toward the open door, disappearing inside the train.
I wait until it pulls away from the station and walk back to the car.
Flynn watches me while I buckle my seat belt, looks at my face, and shakes his head. He sighs, puts the car in drive.
“Oh, Plural,” he says. “You’ve got it bad.”
I don’t answer him, just look out the window as the train grows smaller and smaller, until finally, it’s gone.
On the way back to my house, Flynn launches into a story about his girlfriend—ex now—and I’m not really paying attention until he tells me that he’s done with women for the foresee
able future.
“Yeah, right,” I say.
“I’m serious, Plural. I need some serious me time—no distractions. You know, figure out some shit. Self-improvement 101. So, until further notice—you’re the only girl who gets my attention.”
“Lucky me,” I say as he pulls in my driveway, shuts the car off. “Are you coming to the cookout?”
Lucy had invited almost the entire neighborhood to a Labor Day cookout in the backyard, and Bent had been upset. He told her with all the awful stuff that had happened in the past week, he didn’t think it was the right time to have friends over. But Lucy had looked up from cleaning the grill and said she couldn’t think of a better time, actually.
Now there are cars parked up and down the street, and music drifting out to us from the backyard.
“Is Desiree going to be there?” Flynn asks, and laughs. I slam the door behind me.
“Libs—it was a joke. Come on.” He punches my shoulder playfully, and we walk toward the backyard.
Rooster is lying on the grass next to the porch, and he gets up lazily when he sees us, and Flynn stops and drops to one knee, waits for Rooster to walk over to him.
“See, he still loves me,” he says as Rooster nudges his hand with his head to get him to pet him.
“You’ve brought him a bone every day this week. You’re just buying his affection,” I tell him.
“Whatever it takes, Plural.” He looks at me and winks. “Whatever it takes.”
Bent is standing in front of the grill, flipping hamburgers, and when he sees me, he puts down the spatula and walks over to us. He says hello to Flynn, who shakes his hand so eagerly that Bent frowns and slaps him on the back, tells him to go make himself useful and make sure the hot dogs don’t burn.
“He’s growing on me,” Bent says, watching Flynn hurry toward the grill.
“Welcome to my life,” I tell him, and he looks at me, gestures for me to follow him to the side of the house.
“That’s the most you’ve spoken to me all week,” he says when we’re alone, his voice low. “Not mad at me anymore?”