by Elle Kennedy
“Right.” I eye the tie selection. “Normally I would say no, but your agent would probably disagree.”
Garrett mutters something rude under his breath and goes back to the closet for a rematch. “The premise of this whole thing is ridiculous to being with. I don’t see why they think anyone is interested in watching Phil bullshit his way through a bunch of fond family memories.”
“Because they don’t know it’s bullshit,” I point out.
But he’s now spinning himself into a small tirade. Not that I blame him. If I had a father like Phil Graham, I’d be spitting mad all the time too.
“Swear to God, if he brings up my mom, I’m going to lose it.” Garrett reappears, looping a navy silk tie around his neck. He pulls on it so tight, I’m worried he’ll choke himself.
“Did you give the producers a list of no-no questions?” I know a lot of celebrities do that. Every time Nice gives an interview at the studio, his manager steps in to remind the journalist of the questions they aren’t allowed to ask.
“Landon told them I don’t want to talk about my mother. Gave them the grief excuse, it’s too painful, that sort of thing.” Garrett’s jaw tightens. “But I wouldn’t put it past my father to bring her up himself.”
I bite my lip. “You know, you don’t have to do this. You can just call Landon and tell him you don’t want to. He gets paid to say no for you.”
“Then what? Answer a bunch of questions about why I backed out at the last minute? Phil knows I can’t.”
“So you say nothing, ignore it, and in a week or two it goes away. Some football player gets arrested or says he won’t play until they buy him a pony and you’re off the hook.”
But he doesn’t want to hear it. It’s too late to ease Garrett out of this rage spiral, and the best I can hope for is that he keeps his temper under control while the cameras are rolling. Maybe Landon will have better luck with him.
After Garrett leaves, I welcome the alone time. I slip into a pair of cotton boxers and a tank top and climb back into bed, spending the next couple of hours nursing my cramps and trying to get some work done. Eventually I figure out that part of my stomach pains is hunger and get up to make myself a sandwich—only to come back to bed to see a small red stain on the sheets.
When I hurry into the bathroom to check, I realize my underwear is stained as well.
While it’s not a full-blown panic, my pulse kicks up a notch while I change, strip the bed, and text Allie. She gets back to me while I’m putting the sheets in the wash, with the assurance that some spotting is normal.
ME: You’re sure? I’ve felt like crap all morning.
HER: I’m looking at the Mayo Clinic website right now. Says it’s common.
ME: When does it become not common?
HER: I’ll send you some links. But I don’t know. You know what? Call Sabrina. She’s probably a better person to talk to.
ME: Good idea.
My first instinct had been to text Allie, my closest friend. But she’s right. I should be reaching out to someone who’s actually gone through this. And hey, I’ll even be able to avoid the awkward news-breaking part, because Sabrina already knows about the pregnancy. Allie the traitor let it slip in our girls’ chat.
So I call Sabrina, who picks up on the first ring. I have a feeling she saw my name on the phone and thought, what the hell? We rarely call each other outside of the chat thread.
“Hey. Everything okay?” she asks immediately.
“I don’t know.” I’m suddenly resisting the urge to cry. Stupid hormones. “When you were pregnant with Jamie, did you ever have any bleeding?”
“Bleeding or spotting?” Her tone is sharp.
“Spotting.”
“Light or heavy?”
“Light-ish? Stained my sheets and underwear, but it’s not a constant flow.”
I can almost hear her relaxing on the other end, as she exhales a breath. “Oh, then yes. That’s normal. Any other symptoms?”
“Some cramps this morning, but they’ve subsided.”
“Also normal. My advice is to monitor it for the day. If the spotting turns to bleeding, I’d go to the hospital.” She hesitates. “Could be a sign of miscarriage. But it could also be nothing.”
“Mommy!” I hear a plaintive cry in the background. “I can’t find my purple bathing suit!”
“Sorry. That’s just Jamie.” Sabrina’s voice goes muffled for a moment. “Why don’t you wear the green one instead, then?”
“BUT I WANT THE PURPLE!”
Jesus. I’m pretty sure Sabrina’s covering the phone with her hand, yet I can still hear that kid’s shriek.
“Okay, I’ll find it for you. One sec.” Sabrina returns. “Hannah, I have to go. I’m taking Jamie to the pool and—”
“I heard.”
“Call me if anything changes, okay? Keep me updated.”
“Will do.”
After we hang up, I draw a deep breath and tell myself everything’s okay. But no matter how many times I repeat the mantra, I can’t shake the idea that something’s wrong. Before long, I’m tumbling through my own little spiral as I tunnel deeper into pregnancy blogs and medical journals searching for an explanation. The consensus being that Sabrina is probably right.
Unless she isn’t.
39
Garrett
“Tell us about one of your earliest memories learning to play.”
The interviewer, a former college player turned broadcaster, sits with his pages of questions in his lap. Across from him, my dad and I are in identical director’s chairs. The set is a white-hot spotlight surrounded in darkness but for the red lights of two cameras watching this awkward farce unfold. Not unlike an interrogation. Or a snuff film. To be honest, I wouldn’t be against someone getting murdered right now. Preferably the Armani-suit-wearing jackass beside me.
“Garrett?” the interviewer, Bryan Farber, prods when I don’t reply. “When did you first pick up a hockey stick?”
“Yeah, I was too young to remember.”
That’s not a lie. I’ve seen photos of myself at the age of two and three and four, gripping a child’s Bauer stick, but I don’t have any clear recollection of it. What I do remember, I’m not about to share with Farber.
This guy doesn’t want to hear about my father ripping the covers off me when I was six years old and dragging me out in the freezing sleet to make me pick up a stick too big for my little body and slap at street pucks.
“I think you have a picture,” Phil says, smoothly jumping in. “One Christmas when he was little, maybe two years old? Wearing a jersey the guys all signed for him. He’s in front of our tree with a toy stick in his hands. He took to it right away.”
“Do you remember standing up on a pair of skates for the first time?” Farber asks with a schmaltzy TV smile.
“I remember the bruises,” I say absently but maybe on purpose.
My dad, clearing his throat, is quick to interject. “He did fall a lot at first. First time we went skating was winter on the lake behind our Cape Cod house. But he never wanted to go inside.” He dons a fake faraway look, as if lost on memory lane. “Garrett would wake me up and beg me to take him out there.”
Weird. I remember crying, begging for him to let me go home. So cold I couldn’t feel my fingers.
I wonder if I should tell Farber how my punishment for complaining was getting on a treadmill with weights on my ankles at seven years old. While Phil shouted at my mother to shut up when she objected. He said he was making me a champion and she’d just make me soft.
“Were you motivated by living up to your father’s success?” Farber asks. “Or was it a fear of failure in his shadow?”
“I’ve never compared myself to anyone else.”
The only fear I ever knew was of his violence. I was twelve the first time he actually laid a hand on me. Before that, it was verbal jabs, punishment when I screwed up or didn’t try hard enough or just because Phil was in a bad mood that day. And w
hen he got bored of me, taking it out on my mother.
Farber glances over his shoulder, where his producer, my agent, and my father’s agent stand near the closer cameraman. I follow his gaze, noting that Phil’s rep and the producer seem annoyed, while Landon just looks resigned.
“Can we cut for a second?” Landon calls. “Give me a word with my client?”
“Yes,” my dad’s agent agrees. His tone is cool. “Perhaps you can remind your client that an interview requires actual answering of the questions?”
Landon pulls me to a darkened corner of the studio, his expression pained. “You’ve got to throw them a bone here, Garrett.”
I set my jaw. “I told you, man, I don’t have any good memories growing up. And you know me, I’m a shit liar.”
Nodding slowly, he runs a hand over his perfectly coifed hair. “All right. How about we try something like this? How old were you when you realized you were playing hockey for yourself and not for him?”
“I dunno. Nine? Ten?”
“So pick a moment from that age range. A hockey memory, not a dad memory. Can you do that?”
“I’ll try.”
Once we’re seated again, Farber makes another attempt at coaxing anything real from me. “You were saying you’ve never compared yourself to your father?”
“That’s right.” I nod. “Honestly, for me, hockey was never about trying to become successful, landing big contracts, or winning awards. I fell in love with the game. I became addicted to the thrill, the fast-paced environment where one mistake can cost you the whole game. When I was ten, I dropped a pass at a crucial moment in the third. My stick wasn’t where it was supposed to be, my eyes were on the wrong teammate. I blew it and we lost.” I shrug. “So the next day at practice, I begged my coach to let us run the same passing drill over and over again. Until I mastered it.”
“And did you? Master it?”
I grin. “Yup. And the next time we hit the ice, I didn’t miss a single pass. Hockey’s a wild ride, man. It’s a challenge. I love a challenge, and I love challenging myself to be better.”
Bryan Farber is nodding with encouragement, clearly pleased that I’m opening up.
“I remember that game,” my dad says, and I don’t doubt it. He never missed any of my games. Never missed an opportunity to tell me where I went wrong.
Farber addresses me again. “I bet having your dad rooting for you on the sidelines, challenging you as well, was a great motivator, yes?”
I clam up again. Damn it, I’m never going to survive this interview. And this is only the first taping. We’re supposed to be doing this twice.
An hour into filming, the producer suggests we take a break, and I get off that set as quick as I can. How was that only an hour? It felt like two fucking days.
I avoid the green room and instead grab a drink from a vending machine down some random corridor. When I return to the soundstage and check my phone, I realize I have about a dozen texts and a voicemail from Hannah.
Since she’s not one who’s prone to drama or panic, I signal to Landon that I need a second, then step away to check the voicemail.
She’s talking fast and a bad signal or noise in the background garbles some of the message, but the parts I do grasp nearly stop my heart.
“Garrett. Hey. I’m sorry to do this, but I need you to come home. I…um…”
I frown when she goes silent for several beats. Worry begins tugging at my insides.
“I really don’t want to tell you over the phone, but you’re filming and I’m not sure when you’ll be home and I’m sort of freaking out here, so I’m just going to say it—I’m pregnant.”
She’s what?
I nearly drop the phone as shock slams into me.
“I meant for us to sit down properly and talk about this, not to blurt it out in a voicemail. But I’m pregnant and I’m, um, bleeding and I think something’s wrong. I need you to take me to the hospital.” Her voice is small, frightened. It makes my blood run cold with fear. “I don’t want to go alone.”
“We about ready to get started again?” the producer calls impatiently.
I look over to see Farber and my dad have already taken their seats.
After a brief stuttering glitch, my brain snaps back to the present and the only thing that matters: getting to Hannah right fucking now.
“No,” I call back. I rip off my mic pack and toss it at Landon, who’s approaching me in concern. “I’m sorry, I have to go. There’s been an emergency.”
40
Hannah
“For fuck’s sake. The light’s green, asshole!”
Garrett lays on the horn.
We’re on our way to the hospital, and I’ve been braced in my seat since we pulled out of the driveway and almost backed into a passing car. Traffic won’t cut us a break as Garrett white-knuckles the steering wheel and alternates between impatient outbursts, worried questions, and angry demands.
“How long has this been going on?” he snaps, scowling at the windshield.
“I woke up not feeling well. I had cramps, felt a bit nauseous. Then it got worse.”
“Why didn’t you say something then?”
“Because you were all worked up about the interview, and I didn’t want to add extra stress on you. I couldn’t tell you I was pregnant five minutes before you had to leave the house to see your father.”
“I wouldn’t have gone!” he shouts. Then he takes a deep breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I just don’t get it, Wellsy. How could you not tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you. When I noticed the blood and texted Allie—”
“Allie knows?” Garrett swerves between vehicles.
“—she said I should ask Sabrina if it was normal and—”
“Sabrina knows?” he roars. “Jesus Christ. Am I the last one to find out?”
My hand grips the armrest for dear life. “I meant to tell you,” I say through a lump of guilt. “I kept trying to, but it never felt like the right time. I wasn’t trying to hide it from you, Garrett. I wanted to tell you.”
“But you didn’t. The first time I hear anything about it, I’ve spent all day getting grilled beside Phil, and I check my voicemail to hear you basically in tears telling me to come home because you’re pregnant. I mean, what the hell, Hannah?”
“This is why I haven’t said anything!” Tears sting my eyes as desperation, frustration, and fear form a lethal cocktail in my throat. I feel like I’m going to throw up. “The last thing I wanted was to dump it on you like this. You had this interview. And before that, it was the awards. And before that, it was post-season.”
“You’ve known about this since post-season?” He nearly sideswipes a utility van that’s trying to merge. Horns blare at us from all directions as he speeds up and slips into the left lane. “Christ.”
“Don’t yell at me.”
“I’m not yelling at you,” he growls through gritted teeth. “I’m yelling at the fact that you’ve kept this from me for months.”
“At this point I’m sorry I called at all,” I growl back. “I should have just gone by myself.” Because the louder he gets, and the more the indignation strains his voice while I’m sitting on a pad soaking up blood, the more my own anger rises.
“That’s a low blow.” He curses loudly. “I can’t believe you just said that!”
“You’re shouting at me again,” I snap in accusation. I could be losing our baby, and this jackass is making it all about himself like I’m not terrified.
“This is exactly the kind of shit my father pulls,” Garrett snaps back. “Manipulating me with information. Keeping things to himself.”
“Are you serious right now?” I’m so furious, my hands are actually burning with the urge to smack him. “You’re comparing me to your father?”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Talk about low blows.” I can’t remember the last time I was this mad at anyone. “You know what, Garrett, if you really wanted
to get him out of your life, you could just be honest. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: just tell the world what a monster he is and be done with it. You act like you have to keep silent about the abuse and protect the man’s legacy. But you’ve chosen to keep quiet. You do this to yourself.”
He glances over, eyes blazing. “What, so I should go on TV and announce to the world that my dad used to hit me? Give newspapers interviews describing the various incidents so they can glorify it and pant over the juicy scoop? Screw that.”
“I get that you’re embarrassed, okay? And yeah, it’s not a pleasant subject. Nobody wants to relive their trauma. But maybe it’s time you did.”
He doesn’t say another word or even spare a sideways look in my direction until we get to the hospital and he checks me in. By that point, I’m relegated to the third person while the nurse asks questions and Garrett takes command. I’d protest more, but I don’t have the energy.
Eventually, we’re brought into an exam room where I undress and put on a scratchy hospital gown. Neither of us say a single word. We don’t even look at each other. But when the doctor enters with the ultrasound machine, Garrett brings a chair over to sit beside my bed and grabs my hand to squeeze it tight.
“It’ll be okay,” he says roughly. It’s the first anger-less thing he’s said to me since we got in his car back at home.
“So, Hannah,” the doctor says, prepping the machine. She’s an older woman in her fifties, with kind eyes and silver streaks in her short hair. “The nurse tells me you’ve had some spotting and cramps. How’s the bleeding now?”
“Like a medium-flow period,” I answer awkwardly. “It was lighter earlier, but it started getting worse around lunchtime.”
“Any other symptoms?”