I was new to sex, and I didn’t understand the concept of friends with benefits, mostly because I got absolutely zero benefit from sex with Cal. Short, selfish sex that I’d manage to deal with until he finished.
I wanted the intimacy after. The cuddling. The whispers during.
His words.
I do love you, Lizzie.
God I’ve missed you.
Nothing has been the same without you.
And then, it’d be over, and he’d snap back into Cal. I’d have no choice but to snap back into Lizzie, put on a brave face, and go on with my day.
On the last night that he spent in the house of lost virginity, I helped him finish packing and ordered us a pizza. We sat on the dining room floor with a box between us as a make-shift table. He was moving to his mother’s house for a couple weeks until he could find a rental.
I wanted to buy him a six pack of beer, because I knew that after a couple beers he would be nicer, but I wasn’t old enough.
“I can stay here with you tonight,” I’d told him.
“No, I don’t want you to. I want to be alone.”
I was used to his rejection at that point, but it still hurt every time. I could feel his mood shifting, so I put on my brightest smile.
“Remember when I first came over? That day we went to all the parks in the area and just got to know each other? You answered the door and were all flustered because your coffee pot overflowed.”
“I remember.” He nodded, smiling at me. “And I’d just gotten out of the shower and didn’t have a shirt on yet, and you were blushing so hard your entire face was red.”
“Well, you were cute,” I said, always feeding coins into his ego machine. “And you teased me because I wore sandals to go hiking in the woods.”
We kissed then. He led me to his bedroom and he fucked me on his bare mattress, because all his furniture had already been moved into storage. He didn’t say the nice things that he usually said while he was fucking me, and when it was over, he got up and went to the kitchen.
I met him after a few minutes, and he was gathering our trash from dinner. “You should get going. It’s getting late.”
I nodded. It was the first time I ever felt used. Inexcusably used. I had no defenses left for him, no justifications for his behaviors, no explanations or reasons for his actions.
I’d never forget that feeling.
“I love you, Cal,” I whispered, my guard down. “I think we could make this work. I want what you want, as long as I get to be with you.”
He met my eyes with his own dull, blue gaze. “Lizzie, if we got back together, you’d end up hating me.”
Silence.
If I believed in omens, I’d have marked that moment as a glaring portent. An energy passed through us.
Foreshadowing.
As though some guiding oracle had taken me by the hand and lowered her mouth to my ear.
He will hurt you, Lizzie.
You will end up hating him, Lizzie.
Run, my guardian angel whispered. Run now.
“No I wouldn’t,” I argued, with the little amount of resolve that I felt. After he’d already broken my heart once, I was sure I would hate him if he did it again.
I was sure I was stupid.
“You know, I was talking to my sister the other day,” he said thoughtfully, “and I told her I don’t think I’ve met the girl I’m supposed to marry yet.”
I took a step back. Away from him.
He was throwing stones at me, telling me to go. Like the dog in that movie where the little boy is crying and hurling rocks, telling his beloved pet that he must go. Run away.
I can’t keep you. Leave!
I left. I took what little dignity I had remaining and drove away.
I helped Cal move into his rental house and slept with him once or twice after that, but eventually, I gathered enough self-respect to stop going to him.
After nearly two months of not speaking to or seeing Cal, I met Scott.
He was a customer in my video store, just like Cal had been. He was younger, closer to my age; where there had been nearly a ten-year age gap between me and Cal, there were only four years between me and Scott.
Scott was incredibly handsome. Blue eyes again, but light blue, like the sky on a cloudless day. The piercing blue of a Husky dog, with a smile that lifted the enormous weight that Cal had placed on my shoulders.
Leah had Scott’s eyes.
Scott and I had one incredible summer at the beach. My parents had been more than eager for me to bring him along on our family vacation.
Sure, Scott can come! We love Scott! Scott makes you so happy!
Anyone but Cal.
Scott was my bringer of joy. My supplier of hope.
He fed my co-dependent need for him in a healthy way. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing between us, and it took long talks with Trina to realize that it was drama. Abuse. The go-away-come-back relationship that I had learned from Cal.
We exchanged I-love-yous not even a week after we met, and I made love for the first time. Not bare-mattress fuck-buddy love. Romantic love. We were Danny and Sandy on the beach, giggling and splashing and building sand castles in the summer sun. Fourth of July fireworks and orgasms and laughter. Promises of forever. Dreams of a wedding in Ireland in a castle. College graduates building a life together.
And then there was Leah.
At first, when I told Scott I was pregnant, he was supportive. He was only twenty-four, but he promised he’d be there. We’d get married and he’d do the right thing.
I’m not going to walk out on this baby like my father did to me.
I will raise her too, and we’ll be a family.
We can still go to school.
We’ll be okay.
As that summer wound to a close, Scott drove back to his town five hours away where he was to start college in the fall. We would talk on the phone occasionally, and he planned to drive back to see me in two weeks.
Those two weeks were a blur of uncertainty. I could feel us growing apart, but I wasn’t really upset about it. The more he distanced himself, the more protective I became of my own heart, as the new little one beating inside of me.
The last weekend he visited, we went to the mall. We were sitting in the food court and I was eating a baked potato, one of the few things I could stomach as morning sickness had set in and progressed into all-day sickness.
“I thought about it,” Scott began as we were eating. “About the baby. And I know we’re both Catholic, but I think it wouldn’t be the worst thing if you- you know. Had an abortion.”
I stopped eating.
I was for women’s rights, pro-choice, et cetera, but I’d never thought about it for myself. I never thought I’d have to. Throughout the weeks since I’d found out that I was pregnant, I’d never once considered abortion an option. Even if Scott wanted to throw rocks at me too, it was me and my child. The two of us were one.
The baby wasn’t a hot night under the fireworks. She wasn’t a summer fling that ended when school began. She was forever, and the utter devotion and commitment I felt was as scientifically real as her tiny heart.
“Not an option for me,” I replied softly.
“Okay,” he answered, too quickly.
When he was leaving that Sunday, I knew it was the last time I’d ever see him. Those same paradoxical winds tossed the air between us as I leaned in to kiss him through his car window one last time.
“I love you,” I said.
“I know,” he replied.
He drove away.
“I loved you,” I corrected, to myself.
The next few weeks were private. I spent a lot of time with Trina and my sister, just staying positive and re-routing. I felt in my heart that I was carrying a girl, and my sister and I discussed names. I stopped being a vegetarian as a meat-craving took over, and I ate my weight in steaks and burgers.
Scott and I talked once or twice after th
at, but then I stopped returning his calls. He stopped making his calls. The love that we’d felt turned out to be lust, I told myself. If I could so easily forget about him and move on, I clearly never felt the connection I’d wanted.
Or I was just coping.
On a whim one sunny day before work, I drove to Cal’s house. I didn’t want him to hear that I was pregnant from someone else. Mathematically it was impossible for Leah to be his, and I didn’t want him coming around unexpectedly.
I was in charge. I would seek him out, tell him I was pregnant, and that it was Scott’s.
His rental was small. A mid-century A-frame the yellow color of a gingerbread cottage in a fairytale. His car was crooked in the driveway, so I figured he’d driven home drunk the night before.
Buddy greeted me at the unlocked door. I petted him, let him outside to pee, and gave him fresh water before making my way to the stairs. It never occurred to me that Cal would be with a woman, so I didn’t bother knocking. He wasn’t with anyone, but he was lying across his bed stark-naked on his stomach, passed out and snoring. The humidity in the bedroom air from the late-summer heatwave reeked of alcohol.
I rolled my eyes.
Back downstairs, I decided to just leave him a note. In today’s world, a quick text would have done the trick.
Hey Cal, it’s Lizzie. I was here. I gave Buddy water and let him out. I stopped by to tell you-
“Lizzie?”
Cal stood at the bottom of the stairs, scrubbing his eyes with his palms. I was happy to see he’d thrown on shorts.
“Hey. Sorry, I didn’t mean to just stop by unannounced.”
“That’s okay. What’s wrong?” he asked, greeting Buddy and scratching his ears. The dog whined happily.
“Well, I... just wanted to tell you something,” I began, fiddling with the strap at my shoulder. The overall shorts had come back into style for five minutes, and I wore them with a tiny t-shirt underneath.
“Okay?” He sat in the kitchen chair across from me.
I cleared my throat. “First of all, it’s not yours. But I’m pregnant. I just wanted you to hear it from me and no one else.”
He stared at me with bloodshot eyes, blinking twice before standing. He went to his refrigerator, opened the door, grabbed a beer, and returned to the table.
I stared at him as he popped the top and took a long drink.
“Cal, it’s ten in the morning.”
He finished half the beer before speaking. “And it’s not mine?” he repeated, and something in his voice caught my attention.
Disappointment.
I wasn’t sure if he was disappointed that the baby wasn’t his, or if he was disappointed in me like he was a chastising parent. Either way, I shook my head.
“No, not yours. Impossible.”
“Scott then.”
I nodded.
“Is he going to step up?” he asked. “Marry you?”
I snorted. “It’s not 1950. But yes, he said he’d support us.”
He took another long drink, paused, then took a deep breath.
“So where is he then?”
I shrugged, ripping the piece of notebook paper I’d been writing on. “He went back to his apartment.”
“Are you moving in with him?”
“No. I want to be close to my parents and sister.”
“So, he’s living five hours away, and you’re here.”
I realized that he knew a lot more about Scott then I’d ever told him. Cal had done his research and probably learned most of his information from Trina.
She’s happy, Trina would have told him. Stay away from her. Scott is an awesome boyfriend.
“Yes,” I replied simply.
“Are you keeping the baby?” he asked.
“Yes,” I repeated, clearing my throat. “I have to get going. I have a shift at noon.”
“Wait.” He stood up with me, holding his arms out. “Give me a hug. I’m here for you if you need anything. At all. If you just want someone to talk to. I’m here, Lizzie.”
My heart had a giant Vacancy sign flashing in neon red, and Cal must have seen it. Vulnerable. Defenseless.
Needing.
“Thanks Cal. Thank you. I really appreciate that,” I said.
We saw each other that weekend. I almost threw up after we went out to dinner. He sat next to me on the couch, rubbing my back.
“Deep breaths,” he murmured soothingly.
The wave of nausea finally passed, and Cal held me on the couch in the darkness of his house. It was raining softly on the tin roof, and he ran his hand over my hair, twirling one strand in his fingertips.
After a long time, I lifted my face to his.
He kissed me, the kind of deliberate kiss that meant something. When he pulled away, his eyes met mine.
“I love you, Lizzie. And I love this baby, too. I want to be with you. I’ll raise this baby like it’s my own.”
THIRTEEN
“My wife cured me of my drinking and wickedness,” said Will Munny, Clint Eastwood’s character in Unforgiven. Cal would quote the movie again and again during our marriage, usually ending a love letter with the words.
You cured me, Lizzie.
You saved me from my loneliness and myself.
Cal looked at me, disoriented, his eyes unfocused.
But I never cured you of your drinking, I thought. Or your wickedness.
You are the most wicked, Cal.
The most wicked.
We didn’t have a song. I thought about that as Virginia tightened the ropes around Cal’s legs. There were songs that made me think about the time we first met, songs that were popular on the radio, but no song was ours.
Cal tried to declare “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gaye our song, but I refused. There was nothing lustful or sexual in our relationship. Our bedroom was mechanical. Insensitive. Meant for sleeping off hangovers, not making babies.
Babies were made on the couch in less than three minutes, minus my fireworks girl.
The most wicked.
I would turn songs over and over in my head, trying to make this one or that one fit, but none of them really stuck. As though Virginia read my mind, music floated in the distance.
“You’re Still the One,” by Shania Twain.
He wasn’t still the one. He was never the one. But that song made me think of a time when I thought the future held the promise of love. Of longevity and devotion.
Back when I was an optimist. Back when he had potential.
The most wicked.
I had lucid moments as I watched Virginia tying them up. I floated in and out of my memories, not fully comprehending where I was or what was happening. Song after song played. “I Don’t Want to Miss A Thing” by Aerosmith. “Truly Madly Deeply” by Savage Garden. “How Do I Live” by LeAnn Rimes. “I’ll Be” by Edwin McCain.
“Semi-Charmed Life” by Third Eye Blind. It was the song we cheered to together at our first Cleveland Indian’s game.
“You’re so much more fun than my ex-wife ever was,” Cal told little eighteen-year-old Lizzie, and she warmed at the dirty compliment.
Songs of 1997. Songs of a time when I lived and made the choices that brought me to this house, twenty years later. Songs that were the soundtrack of my fortune. Songs that accompanied me on long drives as I struggled to put my finger on exactly what was wrong with Cal.
Maybe it was me. Maybe I overreacted all the time. Maybe I really was too dramatic.
The most wicked.
I felt my head with my hands, realizing that I had no restraints. Virginia was walking back into the parlor. “I needed to change the music. You seemed distressed, dear Lizzie. I need for you to be calm and clear-headed. Is this better?”
More music from my parent’s youth.
I nodded, my mouth sticky. I felt like I’d been sucking on cotton. “What are you doing?” I managed to slur.
Virginia patted my hand. “Just putting things in order. I mean to transport each
of them to the basement using the dumbwaiter. It’s a fantastic piece of equipment, you see. Built right into the kitchen island. Makes for a drafty area near the counters, but so well hidden... oh, I could go on and on. It’ll only take me a little while to finish putting things in order. Time enough for your wine to wear off.”
I nodded, the overwhelming need to sleep taking over.
But I wasn’t tired.
When I came to consciousness again, I was moving. The squealing of metal on metal jarred me, and I looked around, trying to focus.
“It’s alright, Lizzie,” Virginia called from somewhere above me. “You’re almost to the basement. Just a few more feet.”
I tried to move, but my wrists were tied to the wooden arms of the dining room chair. As the realization of what was happening finally took hold, I tried to scream, but something was shoved in my mouth. A handkerchief?
“Don’t be too loud! We’re not ready to wake Cal yet,” Virginia said, her melodic voice displaced in the horror of the dank basement before me.
Stone walls. Dangling, single-bulb lights illuminated the darkness. The air was frigid, and I shivered, blinking rapidly to clear the fog from my eyes.
Virginia was in front of me moments later, sliding my chair out of the dumbwaiter. The casters moved easily over the concrete floor, and she walked around behind me to push me through the basement.
“You poor thing, you’re trembling,” she said, stopping. After a moment, a blanket was tucked over my shoulders. “It’s so very cold down here, I know. I’m sorry. Just a little further and we’ll get you warm.”
I nodded, my tongue depressed by the wad of material in my mouth.
As clarity edged its way through my mind, fear pumped in my veins.
I was right.
Jake was right.
Virginia murdered Liza, I was sure of it now, and she intended to murder Cal and Lana.
And make me watch?
Murder me too?
I moaned, unable to hold back the sorrow in my heart.
Something Virginia had said right after Lana hit the floor kept trying to make itself known, but my subconscious fought it.
Something she said.
We rounded a corner and I exhaled, choking on my gag.
Cal was shackled to a wall.
ABOUT HER Page 12