Eliza peels off her clothes and crawls into the shower. Hugs her knees. I turn it on, shielding her from the initial icy water with the shower curtain. I wait outside the bathroom. Hand her a towel when she’s done. There are no pajamas in her suitcase, so I reluctantly grab some flannel pants and a large t-shirt from mine.
“Thanks,” she mutters.
I wait on the bed while she dresses. She emerges, looking drained, with a morsel of dried orange puke on her chin, which weakens my own stomach. She probably couldn’t distinguish it from her fading bad spray tan.
She carefully edges herself onto the bed. Lies back. Covers herself completely with the duvet. If I’m allowed to pity myself for a moment, I can’t believe that this is my last night of my first real vacation. I haven’t seen the Eiffel Tower replica. Haven’t gone on a gondola ride at the The Venetian. Haven’t eaten at Noodle Asia. Couldn’t even go to Pure with her slutty friends. I’ve just babysat Eliza. She’s okay now, though. She’s puked. She’s had her fluids and electrolytes. She’s taken a shower and changed her clothes. And now she can get some sleep.
“Do you need me, or can I—”
“I’m good. Go have fun.” Her voice is weak but firm.
I retrieve the bottle of Gatorade from the bathroom. Leave it next to her bed and pull the trashcan close. “Gatorade and trashcan are right here.”
It’s a bizarre thing, Vegas. It’s a place where you can literally walk down the street behind a family with children and watch a pimp hand them a prostitute’s card—vagina and tits on display, complete with pricing specials. A place where the air is hot and suffocating—hitting you like the steam off an overheating engine. Where there are more men wearing dresses than you ever collectively saw on Jerry Springer—and doing it better than women. Where you can get drugs on any corner and guys like Deacon would be in good company.
I greedily drink at a bar bursting with middle-aged tourists, and am sickened that in just twelve years—guaranteed to go by impossibly fast—I’ll be middle-aged myself. I’ve spent nearly that amount of time alone, daydreaming about Brooks with nothing to show for it. Yet, here I am—so close now to what my heart yearns for. But no matter what the future reveals or what past I weave, I was still born into this world as Ivy Hobbs, and it’s hard to forget that. It’s even harder to forget the things I’ve been through.
I wonder if people ever have funerals for their pasts. Like, someone underwent gender reassignment surgery or someone who’s in a witness protection program. Has anyone ever had a funeral for the shell they were born as to symbolize the death of their old identity? I’m not Ivy, not anymore. But I still feel like she’s attached to me somehow, like a parasite invading me the same as Eliza’s baby invaded her. When I get back to Atlanta, maybe I’ll have a funeral for her. Gather up her things, even her notebook with all the Brooks memorabilia, even the pictures of her beloved parents. I’ll put it all in a box, set it on fire, and say goodbye to her. I must go on without Ivy, without all the ghosts of the past. She’s holding me back. I have to move on and really enjoy this new person I am so that I can be the best partner possible for Brooks. He deserves that.
Or maybe I’ve had too much to drink and should go back to the room now. It’s been one long, hellish day of taking care of another person. I definitely don’t want any babies any time soon. When Brooks and I get married, I want to savor our alone time first.
One day. Sigh.
I pay my tab. Take the elevator back up to the room. Not knowing whether the shitty friends have returned or not, I very quietly stick the key in the door. The second I crack it, the hall floods with muffled sobs—sobs that are unmistakably Eliza’s. I panic, my mind immediately jumping to the thought she may be miscarrying.
I’m about to shove the door open when I hear another female in the room. I can’t make out the words she’s saying, but her tone is admonishing. Suddenly Eliza’s crying escalates in volume. I take the risk. Open the door just enough so that I can squeeze inside. Holding my breath, I slowly shut it.
I can’t tell where exactly Eliza and the other voice are coming from, but they’re in either the kitchen or bedroom area, both of which are around the corner.
“You don’t have to do this,” the voice says. I don’t recognize it, so it must be the friend from Washington—Rachel, I think. Yeah, that’s it.
Eliza doesn’t respond. Nose blowing.
“Abortion is not the answer, Eliza.”
My eyes widen as I listen intensely, not daring to exhale. ABORTION? NO!
No response from Mommie Dearest. She only cries harder.
“If you go through with this, you’ll regret it.”
“There’s no way Brooks would stay with me if I have this baby,” she chokes out.
“Then don’t tell him! Brooks will love it. He would be a great father.”
“I can’t do that,” Eliza says. Surprising. Does she possess a morsel of honesty?
“And why not? Lying is better than murder. That’s what abortion is, Eliza. Murder.”
“I know, okay? I know!” Eliza shouts.
“Then what’s the problem? I don’t understand.”
“First of all,” she sniffs. “Mark would never go for that. Even if I didn’t tell him about the baby, Brooks could still find out. It’s too risky. I can’t.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why would Brooks question the pregnancy? You’re about to get married, for God’s sake!”
I’m so stupid. I open the camera app on my phone. Press record.
Eliza blows her nose again. “It just wouldn’t work.”
“But why? You’re just being paranoid. Women do this all the time.”
“Because Mark is biracial, all right?” Eliza blurts.
Silence. Then, “I didn’t know you were into black guys.” Apparently, black guys are into her, I laugh to myself.
“He’s biracial. There’s a difference.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been imagining Mark as some preppy white kid,” Rachel laughs.
“This isn’t funny.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Initially, I thought I could possibly have the baby. That maybe it would look like any other white baby, because Mark is light-skinned. But it doesn’t always work that way, and I don’t want to go through nine months of this hell only to flip a coin at the end.”
Rachel doesn’t say anything.
There is movement and noise outside the door. Could be Tessa and the other girls coming back. I should hide, but this is too fucking good, so I stay put. Risk versus benefit.
“How could you be so careless?” Rachel finally asks. “How could you let some fling knock you up just before your wedding?”
“It’s not a fling.”
“Oh, so what—are you in love with the guy?”
“No,” Eliza sighs. “I mean, yes, but he’s not a fling in the sense that I’ve known him since tenth grade. He’s the first guy I ever slept with.”
My eye muscles almost pop. Tenth Grade Guy isn’t dead. She’s been fucking him all along, the deplorable whore.
“Wow,” Rachel says. “How long has this been going on?”
“Forever, practically. I tried to end things, but he was devastated. Got into an accident and almost died. I couldn’t abandon him after that.” She pauses as if to reflect on the painful memory. “But Mark and I can’t be together, and he knows it. I love Brooks, I do. It’s just so hard to stop.”
“Well, obviously you love Mark, too, if you’ve been sneaking around for this long. But you have to make a choice at some point. If you’re marrying Brooks, why couldn’t you tell Mark it was over?”
“Because if I had to choose, my life would drastically change. My parents don’t know about Mark, but I know they would never approve. Not only is his mom black, which my grandparents would never be okay with, but his dad is in prison for killing her when Mark was eight. She tried to leave, and he snapped. Got life. We met when he was living with a foster
family who went to our church. After he was adopted, we lost touch. I was depressed, felt a little better when I liked another boy, but that didn’t last, so I got depressed again. Then, by the time Mark and I got in touch again, I had already started dating and fell in love with Brooks. But I never stopped loving Mark.”
“So all these years you’ve been in love with two people?”
“Yeah,” she says weakly. “I think I might be sick again.”
There is rustling like maybe Rachel is actually a good friend and is tending to her in some way.
“I do love Brooks,” Eliza says finally. “I really do. It’s just I loved Mark first.”
“I know it must be a difficult choice.”
“But it’s not. There is no choice. I’m not giving up my entire life for a baby. I’m staying with Brooks.”
“Why can’t you just be with Mark if you love him? Raise the baby. Let Brooks go. I’m sure he would be grateful if he knew all of this.”
“And be written out of the family will? Kicked out on my ass and disowned? You keep ignoring the fact that I love Brooks. Even if I didn’t, it’s not that simple. Mark is a social worker now. He doesn’t make enough money to support us all. We would be poor, and in that case I’d rather be dead.”
“You don’t mean that,” Rachel says. “How can you even be sure it’s his and not Brooks’s?”
“Brooks and I didn’t have sex that week. I know when I ovulate since I’m on the pill. I’ve been so stressed about the wedding, I think I really did skip a few days.”
“Are you sure you love Brooks? Maybe you’re just in love with what’s on paper, like you said.”
“No, it’s not just that. I know I love him. I get insanely jealous whenever I think about him being with anyone else. That Emily girl I’ve told you about, she was going to take Jane’s place in the wedding party, but I changed my mind last minute and said it was Brooks’s idea. I caught him looking at her strangely, like she was some fucking angel or something. I knocked her into the lake, and he jumped in after her like she was a suitcase of money. I knew then that I couldn’t stay friends with her. I’ve been suspicious at times, but I’ve never seen him look at another woman that way. She’s only here right now because I was afraid to just drop her. You never know how people will react.”
It was her. My love didn’t kick me out of the wedding. And as pissed as I am that she pushed me in, the moment Brooks and I shared in that dark water isn’t something I’d take back. So, I thank her.
“Well, what are you going to do after the abortion? Are you just going to keep seeing Mark?”
“No. I know I have to stop. Especially after this.”
“When are you going to make an appointment?”
“I go Monday at three.” Monday?
“Eliza, you’ll be bleeding on your wedding day. Periods and wedding days don’t mix.”
“I don’t care,” Eliza says. “I have to get this over with.”
“Well, I’ll fly home with you for support if you need it.”
“I’ll be okay,” she says, her voice strong now.
“What about Mark? Will you tell him, at least?”
“He’ll never know. Neither of them will. It’s for the best.”
That’s what she thinks.
I open the door loudly and close it roughly. Then, I walk in and introduce myself to her maid of honor for a wedding she’ll never have.
November 9, 2015
My hands have been shaking the entire drive over here, and my upper lip is moist with sweat. It’s 6:30 AM. I’m jet-lagged and didn’t sleep well because of the time difference and Deacon’s letter that was taped to my door. That pitiful, groveling letter, telling me he can explain, just give him the chance, and it’s not what I think. Please. I have to enter the gate code twice—a ball of exhaustion and nerves. I wish I had more time to prepare, but it has to happen right now.
Of course I’ve known since high school Eliza was up to no good, but I wasn’t prepared for this level of scandal. I’m sad for Brooks, because though this helps me tremendously, it will hurt him, and I don’t want him to hurt. I need him to be mentally healthy when we begin our lives together. But then again, maybe I do want him to hurt. Then it could be like Munchausen Syndrome, and I can fuck him all better.
The doorbell is loud and abrasive. His dog immediately starts barking. Loud footsteps down the stairs as he commands it to shut up.
He opens the door, thoroughly confused. He totally wasn’t getting ready for work. He’s shirtless in boxers. Hair slightly out of place from rolling around in his bed that I’ll soon join him in. Can’t wait.
“Emily?” he squints, sleep still etched on his face.
“I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.”
Horror washes over him. “Oh, fuck. Is Eliza okay? She’s not hurt, is she?” He opens the door wider.
“No, nothing like that. She’s okay. Well … sort of. I really need to talk to you. Can I come in?”
He releases a quick, full breath, relieved that Eliza isn’t hurt or dead. I want to shake him. I don’t understand his love for her. “Emily, it’s not even eight yet. Why are you here?” He runs a hand through his hair. Looks at me with fervent eyes that make me impatient for him to be inside of me, but right now I have a baby to save.
I step into his foyer and walk past him. Whirl around and kick the door closed.
“What the hell?” He looks at the door, and then to me, the hard lines of his abs distracting. I need him. I need him as fast as I can get him.
“Eliza is pregnant!” I blurt. I could have saved this news. Could have played her taped confession and displayed a giant canvas of her ultrasound photo and ruined the entire thing mid-nuptials. But Brooks doesn’t deserve that type of public humiliation, and it’s too cliché.
“Excuse me?”
“She’s pregnant,” I repeat.
He narrows his eyes. Stares at me dubiously. One corner of his mouth begins to turn into a grin, but it doesn’t make it and then disappears. “Wait, why are you telling me this?”
“Because it’s not your baby. She’s been cheating on you.”
His face molds into something that resembles when he said goodbye to me. It’s been so long since that desperate look. I wish I could hold him.
He tries to speak, but nothing comes out. Finally, “You’re lying.”
“What? No, it’s true! It’s not yours, Brooks. I overheard her confessing it all to Rachel.”
His face grows red, veins inflating his forehead. “Get out.”
“Brooks—”
He speaks through clenched teeth. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but don’t ever come back here. First, you—first, you kissed me, then had the audacity to still go on that trip. Now you show up and push your way into my house and tell some outrageous lie? Are you insane?” He grabs my arm and pulls me to the front door. Pushes me hard enough to get me out of the doorway.
I turn and face him. Put my hand between the door so he can’t close it. “It really is true. She’s getting an abortion so you won’t find out! Today! She was going to—”
“That’s enough, Emily!” He shoves my hand away, genuine disgust on his face. Slams the door, the click of the lock a third rejection.
My heart sinks, lower, lower, lower. The porch steps blur in the sea of my tears. How can he not believe me?
Quickly, I pull out my phone. Google the Bimbo Bandits. I wish I could turn the bitch in, but I can’t see forcing an innocent baby to be birthed in a jailhouse. I zoom in on the fuzzy photo of her from the Bebe footage. Screenshot it and send it to him along with the link to the article. Then, I forward the taped confession to him.
I’m sorry you had to find out this way, I text. She’s not the girl you think she is. Neither am I, but that’s irrelevant.
I don’t get a response from him. I don’t expect to. He’s in denial right now, but I can only hope that by three PM he’s of sound mind. And I can only pray that by four PM he�
��s no longer marrying Eliza James.
November 9, 2015
Emily is crazy. Completely and undeniably crazy. No way am I opening her texts. I should have known when she’d kissed me that she was nuts. I mean, sure, I have had plenty of inappropriate thoughts about her, but I never acted on them and wasn’t planning to. It would require a long period of tortuous double dates with her bending over in miniskirts and no panties before I would ever be able to cheat. Even the word cheat makes me cringe. I can’t deny that I enjoyed the kiss, but she is out of her mind. She was obviously sharing the same feelings, and me being alone was her opportunity to kiss me and make it known. When I pulled away, I must have enraged her, and this is a desperate attempt to cause a rift between Eliza and me mere days before the wedding.
But if she’s so crazy, why did I get an Uber to follow Eliza in, and why are we pulling up to a Planned Parenthood? If Emily is making some unfounded claim in an attempt to cause drama because she is jealous of Eliza, why the fuck is Eliza turning in to Planned Parenthood?
I watch as Eliza exits her car and walks in. She doesn’t look upset. She looks relaxed and normal. I chuckle. She’s probably just here for a checkup or one of those vagina exams they do. Paps. But Eliza has insurance. Her own OB/GYN. Why would she be here?
Maybe … maybe Emily’s not lying? No. I can’t stomach that thought. I refuse to believe Emily’s lie could even be based on the truth. But I need to find out why she’s here, and I am sure Eliza has a perfectly legit reason. She has to. Maybe she’s volunteering like she does at the hospital. Emily probably just overheard her talking about Planned Parenthood and used it to spin a story. Crazy people do crazy things.
The Evolution of Ivy: Poison Page 21