Tell on You

  Melissa stared, transfixed by the confrontation between her husband and father. A modern-day David and Goliath battle. How had Jeremy summoned the gumption to take him on? She feared his victory would be short-lived. Howard the giant brought machine guns to stone-fights, even if he had to hire them.

  Shuddering, Melissa heard her own name thrown into the mix, heated words exchanged about the baby. Would the media come after her now, forcing her to deal with her pregnancy in the public eye, like some reality TV contestant?

  She turned off the television, got up and drew the blinds, wanting to hide. Her cellphone rang and she let the call go to voicemail. Again it rang, followed by the chirp of an incoming message.

  Melissa turned off the phone, went to the door to ensure it was locked, the chain secured. Too nervous to sit, she paced the small living room, fingers raking her hair. She had to think. Decide.

  She went to the kitchenette, filled the kettle and started the water heating while she pulled out a bag of herbal tea. Chamomile might calm her. When the kettle whistled, she poured the water with a trembling hand and carried the mug to the table. She inhaled the fragrant steam and exhaled deeply, her heartbeat gradually returning to normal.

  The doorbell rang and Melissa nearly spilled her tea.

  I won’t answer it. Whoever they are, I won’t buzz them in. Jeremy had the only key besides her own. With the safety chain fastened, even he couldn’t get in, unless she let him.

  Loud pounding began downstairs. Melissa heard it, even with the upstairs door closed. Not Jeremy, then. He’d have unlocked the downstairs door and come upstairs. The pounding grew louder, more insistent. Melissa put her hands over her ears to block it out.

  Abruptly it stopped, followed by voices below. Melissa’s heart thudded in her ribcage. Her downstairs neighbor must have opened the door. Footsteps raced up the stairs.

  She got up from the table, eyes darting frantically around the apartment. She felt an impulse to hide—in the bedroom closet, or the shower, with the bathroom door locked. Frozen in place by the table, Melissa gasped when the knocking began at the upstairs door.

  She tip-toed over to retrieve her cellphone and turned it on. The pounding ceased, replaced by her father’s voice from the other side of the door.

  “Mel? I know you’re there. I saw your car outside. Open this door at once!”

  The rage in his voice made her weak-kneed, but Melissa remained silent. She wouldn’t let him in, no matter what. If he tried to break down the door, she’d call 911.

  More knocking. “Listen to me, Melissa. You need to come back to the house with me. Now.” Her father’s voice softened. “Sweetheart, you shouldn’t be alone at a time like this. It’s not good for you or the baby.”

  So the carrot now, instead of the stick. Melissa bit her lip to keep from answering. She felt like an ostrich, hiding her head in the sand and pretending to be invisible.

  “Be rational. Do you have any idea how you’ve worried your mother?”

  So much for the carrot. Melissa shook her head in disgust. Recognizing his guilt-trip tactic made her feel stronger. She remained mute, remembering the threats her father had hurled at Jeremy on the newscast. You won’t get within a mile of Melissa or the baby. With a shudder, she imagined herself imprisoned in her old bedroom at the house.

  “Very well.” The calm in her father’s voice struck Melissa as even more ominous than his rage. “You’re forcing my hand. If I have to come back here with a locksmith and a psychiatrist, I’ll do it. Think it over, Melissa. I’ll be expecting your call.” His footsteps thumped down the stairs.

  When the downstairs door slammed, Melissa hastily scrolled through the contacts in her cellphone and called her obstetrician. Following the after-hours voicemail menu, she pressed the prompt to leave a message.

  “It’s Melissa Barrett. Please call me as soon as you can. I want to schedule the procedure we talked about.”

  SEVENTY FIVE

  MELISSA PASSED A FITFUL night on the sofa, afraid if she slept in the bedroom she might miss hearing her father return. Hearing his approach might not save her, but she kept vigil anyway. At dawn, she sank into exhausted slumber until her cellphone startled her awake—disoriented to find herself in the living room, daylight seeping in beneath closed blinds.

  Warily, she checked her screen. Her obstetrician’s office. At once, Melissa wakened fully, memories of the previous evening flooding her. They’d returned her call about scheduling the abortion.

  Her mouth nearly too dry for speech, Melissa listened and nodded while the nurse confirmed the arrangements. A D&C tomorrow at 9:00 AM, at their surgical center in Mountainside. Melissa needed to arrive an hour early, sign consent forms and prepare for the surgery. No food or liquids after midnight tonight. Someone had to drive her home after the procedure. Her pre-op bloodwork and EKG to be done at the hospital today.

  All happening so fast.

  Melissa hung up and a wave of nausea sent her sprinting for the bathroom. Arising from morning sickness or terror, either way, it would be over tomorrow.

  Feeling better, she made her way to the kitchenette for tea and saltines. The doorbell rang and she dropped the newly filled kettle into the sink with a loud clatter, sloshing water over the countertop. Her phone chirped with an incoming text and Melissa’s hands went cold. Back under siege.

  She hurried to the living room and checked her phone. A message from her mother:

  I’m downstairs. Buzz me in.

  Melissa debated, then texted back:

  Alone?

  At the affirmative reply, she took the chance and buzzed open the downstairs door. She unlocked the apartment door, but kept the security chain fastened while she waited to see who came up the stairs.

  Footsteps too light to be her father’s.

  Her mother’s worried face appeared at the partially opened door. Melissa whimpered and unlatched the chain. “Mom!” She sank into Beth Milton’s arms.

  “Sweetheart.” Her mother enfolded her. “Are you all right?”

  “Uh huh. Not really,” Melissa amended in a small, frightened voice.

  “Come.” Beth led her to the sofa. “Sit down. Have you had breakfast?”

  Melissa almost smiled. Such a Mom question. “I was making some tea.”

  “Just the thing. You rest. I’ll get it.”

  “And maybe some saltines?” Melissa didn’t care if she sounded about twelve years old. Having her mother take charge made her feel safer than she had in days. As Beth went for the tea, Melissa realized she was dangling from a precipice, desperately wanting to let go, fall and have somebody there to catch her.

  “Here, dear.” Beth emerged from the kitchenette, bearing a steaming mug and a plate of crackers. “See if you can get some of this down.” She handed Melissa the tea, put the saltines on the coffee table and took a seat beside her on the sofa.

  Melissa took a sip of the hot herbal tea. When her stomach didn’t protest, she drank some more. Slightly fortified, she asked: “Where’s Dad?”

  “At home.” Beth studied her daughter’s face. “I convinced him it was better if I came alone.”

  Melissa put down the mug and reached for a cracker. “That’s for sure. God, Mom, he was like a crazy person last night. He was threatening to, I don’t know, have me committed or something.”

  Her mother made a soft clucking sound. “He’s terribly worried about you, Melissa. We both are.”

  “Well, that makes three of us.”

  “And all this—” Beth hesitated. “Stress you’re under. It can’t be good for the baby, either.” She grasped her daughter’s hand and fixed her with imploring eyes. “Dear, wouldn’t it be best to come home? At least until everything is sorted out?”

  Melissa shook her head. “I can’t, Mom. I can’t come home.” She took a breath. “And I can’t have this baby.”

  Her mother gasped. “Mel! Oh, darling, you mustn’t say that.”

  As Beth released her hand, Melissa held on, s
queezed. “Please, Mom! Listen to me. I can’t do it. I can’t bring a baby into this mess, or take care of it. I can’t even take care of myself right now.”

  “But you don’t have to,” her mother insisted. “Do it alone, I mean. Daddy and I…”

  “No.” Melissa dropped her mother’s hand. “I’m not going to be a child having a child, Mom. If I can’t do it on my own, I won’t do it. Period.”

  Her mother gave her a searching look. “What are you saying, Melissa?”

  She held Beth’s gaze. “I’m scheduled for an abortion tomorrow.”

  Her mother paled. “Oh, no.”

  “I am, Mom. I’m having a D&C. I’m going for the bloodwork and stuff this afternoon.”

  Beth’s eyes welled. “My grandchild.” Her voice broke. “But what does Jeremy say about all this?”

  Melissa looked away. “It’s not up to him.” She swallowed. “He didn’t want the baby, anyhow.”

  “Melissa, men don’t always want a child, at first. But they come around. Does Jeremy know you’re having this—procedure?” Beth uttered the word as if it left a foul taste on her tongue.

  Melissa sank back into the sofa and crossed her arms. “He’s leaving for that rehab tomorrow. When he gets out, I’ll tell him. I’ll say I had a miscarriage.”

  “Oh, Melissa.” Sorrow thickened her mother’s voice, clouded her face. Melissa leaned forward, her head sinking onto Beth’s shoulder. “Mom? Please, will you help me? I need someone to drive me tomorrow.”

  “To the abortion?”

  Melissa cringed at her mother’s tone.

  “Please, Mom. They won’t let me drive after the procedure. I need you.”

  “Melissa, I couldn’t. Don’t you have a friend you can call?”

  “They don’t know.” Melissa flushed. “I don’t want them to. Please, Mom.” Beth shook her head. “Don’t ask me to do this.”

  “Mom?” Melissa clutched her mother’s arm. “Please don’t make me ride home with some cab driver. Help me. I can’t do this alone.”

  After a long moment, Beth sighed. “What time should I pick you up?”

  SEVENTY SIX

  HER SUSPENSION ALLOWED NIKKI to sleep late. While eager for Heather’s status report on the promised killer CD, she didn’t expect a call until the school day ended. So she slept in until noon. As the afternoon stretched on with no word, Nikki grew as taut and jittery as an unwalked dog. When at last the call came at around 4:00, she pounced on her cellphone.

  Heather.

  “Well?” Nikki demanded, too impatient for any preliminaries. “Is it ready?”

  “All set,” Heather assured her. “I’m going over to Martin’s to pick it up. Want me to come by your house from there?”

  Duh. “Yes! Bring it.” Like she hadn’t made it clear she wanted the thing ASAP?

  “No problem. I should be there in about an hour.”

  “Look, are you totally positive this will work? Tell me exactly what it’ll do.”

  “Well, like I told you…”

  Another geek lecture. Nikki seethed, but had no choice except to hear her out.

  “You leave the CD on his car…”

  Her car, Nikki mentally corrected.

  “Leave it somewhere conspicuous, like the windshield, with a note,” Heather went on.

  “Right, I know that part,” Nikki snapped. “What happens when he plays the CD?”

  “Okay, so the self-erasable attack code will upload through the media player into the computer, and—”

  “Wait a minute,” Nikki broke in. “What does that mean—self-erasable?”

  “The code is set up to wipe itself out after the CD plays,” Heather explained. “No evidence that way.”

  “Smart.” Little witch thought of everything. “So—I shouldn’t listen to the CD, then?”

  “Right, or it will erase. Also, Martin programmed it to take effect a couple minutes after it uploads. That way, Mr. B will already be driving, instead of pulling out. You see?” No missing the note of pride in Heather’s voice.

  “Yeah, got it. Good thinking.” Nikki pictured the steep hill outside Mr. B’s apartment complex. “Then what?”

  “Then…da da DAH!”

  Nikki ground her teeth. “Yeah?”

  “All hell breaks loose.”

  “And? What?”

  “The brakes and steering will be completely disabled, the engine will race… and—pow! Mr. B is road kill.”

  Exactly what Nikki wanted to hear. “Way impressive, Heather. You sound pretty hot to settle your own score with him, huh?”

  “Well, you know. After the way he led me on.”

  Nikki snickered. “All that therapy must be working. You didn’t used to be this bold.”

  “I guess we all have to grow up sometime,” Heather said. “Anyway, I already gave you his address. Couldn’t take the chance you’d botch the job and figure out a way to blame it on me.”

  Jeez, Heather really grew a set of cojones. Maybe she should pin it on her, get her out of the picture. “Guess there’s the chance Mr. B might take someone else out with him, though,” Nikki said. “Another driver or pedestrian, right?”

  “Well, yes. There could be civilian casualties,” Heather agreed. “Is that going to be a problem? I mean, do you want to go ahead with this, anyway?”

  “Yeah. Affirmative.” Nikki giggled, echoing Heather’s military-speak. “So you’ll have it here by dinnertime?”

  “That’s a promise. See you soon. Over and out.”

  “Yeah, out.” Nikki ended the call, grinning. “Lights out,” she whispered.

  SEVENTY SEVEN

  JEREMY FELT THE WALLS of his motel room closing in on him. Eighteen hours until Peter Winkelman came to take him to the airport, and a mix of boredom and anxiety had him crawling out of his skin. He’d passed the time watching TV and playing games on his iPhone. And he’d Googled the website for the rehab facility.

  Some of what he read ntrigued him. They offered yoga, meditation and something called Equine Assisted Therapy that involved horses, but not riding. What the hell would you do with a horse, if not ride it? The prospect of daily group and weekly individual therapy made him more leery. And Twelve Step groups. “Hello, my name is Jeremy, and I’m a sex addict.” He still didn’t buy the notion that he was an addict. But he’d read the web page section that listed symptoms of sex addiction, and a couple of them hit home. His infatuation with Nikki had produced plenty of adverse consequences and he’d kept meeting her in spite of them. But he’d have stopped, if only…

  Too much to think about. Time enough for that when he got there. Instead, Jeremy went for a brief workout in the motel fitness room, despite his lack of sneakers and sweats. Returning, he stripped off his sweaty clothes and it dawned on him. He’d never get through a month of rehab with the meager supply of clothing in his overnight bag. He’d still heard nothing from Melissa, and decided calling or texting her again would be an exercise in futility.

  Under a hot shower with anemic water pressure, Jeremy pondered his next move. No question of buying new clothes, with his bankroll and credit running even thinner than the shower stream drizzling down on him. He’d have to go to the apartment and pack a bigger bag. Give Melissa a heads-up that he was coming.

  A convenient excuse to call her, he knew. But suppose she told him not to come? Or said okay, then stayed away when he did? Neither scenario sat well. He needed the clothes, but also wanted to see Melissa.

  What the hell. Easier to ask forgiveness than permission, isn’t that what they say? Jeremy decided to take his chances. He’d show up unannounced and hope for the best.

  Assuming Melissa hadn’t changed the locks since yesterday.

  Dressing in his last clean outfit, Jeremy remembered Winkelman’s injunction to stay at the motel. No point in seeking permission there, either. No point in mentioning the visit to his lawyer, at all. Jeremy collected his phone, jacket and keys. As an afterthought, heading out the door, he stuck the Do
Not Disturb sign on the knob. In case of unexpected visitors.

  In the light mid-afternoon traffic, he made it to the apartment in a hair over half an hour. Jeremy parked and looked around. No sign of Melissa’s car. He felt a pang of disappointment, but decided it might be better this way. In and out, with no awkward confrontation.

  But no chance to say goodbye.

  He mounted the stairs, his feet leaden. At the top, he rapped lightly on the apartment door before using his key. If Melissa was there, he’d give her a heads up before barging in.

  No answer.

  He entered the silent apartment. No trace of Melissa in the flesh. He lingered in the living room, gazing at the familiar disarray. Mentally, he photographed the bits of Melissa’s clothing strewn about—shoes, a shirt, an empty mug with her lipstick on the rim. He’d savor those images during his exile. Would she be here when he returned?

  He went to the bedroom to pack.

  Robotically, Jeremy stuffed a duffel bag with jeans, shirts, socks and underwear. Since he’d be in the Deep South, he threw in a few pairs of shorts and tee-shirts. Added his sneakers. The website mentioned a state-of-the-art fitness center.

  His packing finished, Jeremy looked around the bedroom for anything he might have forgotten. He had an impulse to take something of Melissa’s as a token to cling to during their separation. He smiled, picturing the red garter he’d slipped onto her thigh the last time they’d made love. Where would it be? Had she kept it?

  Probably not the thing to bring to a sexual addiction facility, anyway.

  Forlorn, Jeremy sank onto the bed. Laying back, he rolled over and pressed his face into Melissa’s pillow. It hurt his injured nose, but he didn’t care. He wanted to inhale her scent, carry it with him. Anything to fill the void.

  Time to go.

  Already he’d pushed his luck, coming and staying this long. Jeremy hoisted the duffel bag and carried it out of the bedroom. On the verge of leaving, he paused. Why not leave her a note? She’d see his things missing, might worry. Only common courtesy, he rationalized, to confirm he’d been there and spare her further worry.