“I don’t know you. My God… Gabby, how could you consider this?” He sobbed. “I don’t know who you are – I can’t know a person that could do this! Who could do this to an innocent life?”
He stepped back into the pack of protestors, and screamed their chant.
“But, Daddy,” I cried out to him, stretching my arms to reach him, “I didn’t do…” and a hit came from my other side, and it was deep and under my ribs, and stole my breath. I gripped Jessica’s arm, and thought I was going to black out, but the stars that raced in front of my eyes rose up to the clouds.
By the time I could see clearly enough again, my Daddy was walking away from us and holding his face in hands. “Daddy!” I screamed after him. “Please, Daddy!” I screamed some more. But he only shook his head and kept walking.
My heart ached. My heart broke! I wanted my Daddy, I needed my Daddy, and he turned away from me. Jessica got me to my home later that afternoon, and then wished me luck as I got out of her car. When I went to my room, it wasn’t my room anymore. It wasn’t my home. How could I face my Daddy? How could I face my momma, or anyone? I wasn’t thinking, not at all. A voice in my head said to run, get on the road, and run.
My dog sat on my bed, his eyes were big, and his ears were pressed flat against his head. He whimpered, and I believe he knew there was something off, something wrong. Dogs know. Sitting next to him, he nuzzled my arm, as if trying to ask what happened. I wiped the silliness away from my eyes, and kissed him on the snout, and told him I had to leave. He whimpered some more, and nuzzled my chin. I kissed him again, and kept the tears in my eyes.
Run, I heard in my head, and poured the books out of my school backpack. My life as a teenager ended, and any evidence of it was dumped out onto my bed and remained there. For all I know, it may still be there. I raced around the house and gathered a few pieces of clothes, another pair of shoes, and whatever cash I could find. That is all I had with me. And that is all I left with. From the road, I looked back once to see my dog watching me through the window. I cried for the first mile, but then wiped that silliness away, too.
Ms. Potts and Suzette never interrupted. They never asked a question, or passed a look to one another. I didn’t remember seeing Clark come from around from the grill, but there he stood, a cup of coffee in his hands, and his eyes on me.
“Gabby, that is horrible…” Suzette started to say, and then an awful thought rushed though me, and it scared me. What would they think of me now? What would they think about what I did, or planned to do? A crash of feelings filled with pain and fear and sadness hit me, and I shook.
“Please, please don’t judge me,” was all I could get out before Ms. Potts pulled me into her arms.
“Shhhh, ain’t nobody here gonna judge anyone. That ain’t our place to do. You done nothing wrong in my eyes. What was done to you is unspeakable,” she finished. I passed a look to each of them.
“G-Gabby, your family – we love you,” Clark added.
Suzette leaned in when my eyes reached hers, and asked, “Gabby, but what about the baby?”
Images of Tommy and the baby chick raced across my eyes, only to be replaced by memories of a dank and musty motel room and a filthy bathtub.
“I lost the baby a few days later,” I said, and pushed back another wave of hurt. “The first cramps started the next morning. I had coin-sized bruises on my legs and around my back and my front,” I started, and circled my finger and thumb to show where the bruises landed. “They were a deep color, just sickening bruises. The protestors left their marks on me that morning, and, by that afternoon, I was losing my baby.”
I could only tell them some of what happened next. The images were still in my mind, and I suppose they would be the rest of my life. The cramping didn’t pass. Instead, a burning started inside of me. That is when I considered that my baby and I might be in trouble. My skin felt warm, and, with the blankets pulled away, I laid on my side and prayed for the pain to stop. I told myself it was nothing. I told myself it was stress, and that the cramping was normal. I prayed that my baby would be okay. My skin got warmer and sweaty, and I began to feel cold. That’s when the vomiting started. Something was wrong.
So much pain came then, and it was from deep inside. It was a pain like I’d never felt before. I prayed, and cried through some of it. I didn’t know if my baby would stay alive. I didn’t know if I could stay alive. I kept praying. Praying that we would be okay. I remember sitting on the floor against the bed, cold beads of sweat under my eyes and above my lip. I remember holding my belly and talking to my baby, and saying to hold on, to please hold on. But when I felt the wet between my legs, I knew it was blood, although I hoped it was sweat. I remembered hearing about bleeding in early pregnancy, and that everything could be okay. I prayed harder.
A hot twist of pain pulled me to the floor of the room, and I remember digging my fingers into the carpet and clutching fistfuls of shag, trying not to scream. But I did scream – pain pushed me on my knees and elbows with fistfuls of carpet as a run of sweat dripped from my nose. I felt lightning spasms inside, pulling me apart and holding me on the floor of that motel room. At some point, I blacked out for a few minutes. No time travel this time. When the room was in my eyes again, the spasms were worse, and a heavier flow started. I grabbed a towel and held it under me, and then started to shake. My baby was leaving me.
By the time it was dark outside, I had to lie down in the bathtub. I held the towel between my legs and waited to die. It was a white bathtub, but dirty and old, and it had a drain that was caked in black mildew. But I didn’t care, I couldn’t save my baby. I remember pushing my fingers along cracks in the lip of bathtub and into some of the holes where porcelain used to be. I remember waiting as the sweat ran down my face and the blood spilled out of me. The tub felt cold under my skin, and my teeth chattered. The pain that pulled my insides didn’t stop, it didn’t get better. A few times, I thought I’d pass out again. I wanted to call out for someone. I wanted them to get my parents, to get Tommy. But then I felt my baby leave me, and I shut my eyes and prayed that I would keep bleeding. That I’d bleed until there was nothing left of me.
There was a familiar pain in the eyes of Ms. Potts and Suzette. They knew this pain; they’d been where I’d been. It wasn’t the same, but, then again, it was. I didn’t realize it before, but we shared something, a loss. I felt closer to them for it. Looking at their faces, I wondered if there was something bigger than us, greater than us. Something that had brought the three of us together. Could there be? I’d like to think that maybe there was.
“But I didn’t die in the tub. I cried when it was over. I lost our baby. I don’t know if I was going to lose our baby anyway, or if the visit to the clinic was what caused me to miscarry. But I couldn’t go back. It wasn’t just my Daddy – I could never face Tommy again. And I think maybe I might have killed Tommy, too.”
Suzette pulled her hand to her mouth after I mentioned Tommy. She considered what I said, and I’d considered it more than a few hundred times since seeing his parents. If we had our baby, would Tommy have joined the Army after college? If we had our baby, would he have even gone to college? A blend of questions haunted me after hearing about his death. I didn’t dare explore more, or speculate what might have been if the decision I made had been different. One decision, a decision I made on a breezy afternoon while sitting in my yard changed our lives forever.
14
Some days at the diner start out busy, and then stay busy. Today was one of those days. The bell above the door, ringing every couple of minutes, had me lifting my chin to see who was coming and going. Sounds of our busy diner played back a tune of dishes and dinnerware, and people talking and laughing. I loved that sound, and would never tire of hearing it. As for my feet, I wish I could say the same, but that was a different story. Like Mrs. Quigly’s doggy slippers, my feet were barking. I kept a steady pace of back and forth to pick up plates of food from Clark, and was certain a rut of footp
rints, just my shoe size, were fixing a path from the booths to the counter, and to the grill.
Even Mr. Thurmon was pitching in to help where he could. He’d donned a waist apron to clear and setup the counter when bussing was needed. I liked having his company, but found that I was keeping an eye on him, hoping he was okay, while trying to keep an eye on everything else. He struggled through his pain, but was surprisingly quick in working the counter; he’d obviously done this a few times, maybe even a few thousand times. It especially helped having him with us when he chased out a few campers who’d held onto one of our booths for more than an hour. Just kids having fun, but not ordering anything, they cursed him some, and he scoffed a laugh as he told them to please come again. The counter was busy that night, and we wouldn’t have been able to manage the floor without him.
While you might think the counter would be the easier section to work in a diner, it wasn’t. Not at Angela’s. Quite a few of our regulars were singles, meaning they were here for a meal, and then out the door. No socializing; no need to. So, the counter not only saw more faces, they were inclined to move fast, very fast. When Mr. Thurmon’s neck started to pink up, I knew he was already beginning to tire. Soon after, the pink crept into his cheeks and darkened to a near purple, and, at times, his leg seemed to drag behind him like a dead limb. When he caught himself falling into the counter’s edge, I told him he should take a break. He was working into his second hour, and looked as though it had been a full day. He knew it, too. The stumble in his step and the cramping in his hands fought him constantly. A few times, I saw him try to shake out the dysfunction in his fingers, as though conjuring a spell to rid himself of the disease. Whatever relief there was to have remained fleeting as his expression soon turned to disappointment and sadness when he looked at his hands.
When a plate smashed to the floor, and the diner hushed in a momentary lull, I could tell he was ready to take a break. The pain was too much. Red-faced with sweat over his eyes and above his lips, he gave me a smile and shrugged. I told him that I’d take care of the broken dish, but that the cost was coming out of his pay. He laughed, but his voice sounded tiny, and I could tell he was embarrassed. I also thanked him and asked if he’d like to take a few minutes and let me get him something to eat or drink. He hesitated when he reached to pick up a piece of the dish, but then stopped altogether and pulled himself up. He grabbed a cup of coffee, and took to the empty seat he was clearing before the dish crashed at his feet.
“Buyers are coming today. Probably would be better if I stay more professional-looking, anyway,” he conceded, and blotted the sweat from his brow.
“Buyers?” I asked, thinking my voice sounded naive and unknowing. Of course, we all knew about the pending sale – the detective had made certain of it. Hearing the words aloud stung a bit. Regardless of the danger to Ms. Potts and Clark, selling Angela’s still felt wrong.
Mr. Thurmon lifted his eyebrows with a warm expression, and maybe some relief, which I suppose was at the prospect of selling. “Buyers… from the neighborhood. They own a few buildings, and want our plot to expand one of their businesses. ‘Strategic’ they called it. I didn’t think this place would sell… didn’t expect it would ever sell. And never considered the dirt we’re sitting on was worth more than the diner,” he finished, his expression absent of any reservations, or remorse that I expected to see.
I loved Angela’s, and the thought of it being torn down hurt inside. As I watched Mr. Thurmon drink his coffee, I felt angry. I felt mad that he could just sell Angela’s, only to see it torn down. Destroyed. It wasn’t my place to think anything, and I couldn’t imagine what he must be going through, but I was angry. Putting his cup down, Mr. Thurmon smiled and winked at me. I gushed a little, and any resentment I held onto disappeared. I felt sad for him: sad that he didn’t feel an attachment to his mother’s place like I did. He may have, but just didn’t show it. Not now, anyway. I’d like to think that was the reason.
“Well, if that’ll make you happy, then I suppose that is the best thing for Angela’s, isn’t it?” I shot back, and realized my voice sounded short and gruff. Sometimes my voice doesn’t catch up with my mind. I refreshed his cup and then told him I had a table waiting. Guilt pressed on my shoulders as I walked away. Maybe four or five steps, and regret told me to go back to him and apologize, but Mr. Thurmon was already up from the counter. He was moving to the front to greet two Asian gentlemen dressed in dark suits – the sound of the bell rang out as the door closed behind them. One of the men wore a cream-colored tie, which matched his brown eyes, while the other wore a tie with spots, which clashed against the stripes on his suit. Neither of the men was smiling. Mr. Thurmon shook their hands with vigor, and made a polite enough smile, waving his arm in a half circle, napkin still in hand, to show off the inside of the diner. Ms. Potts took a notice of the men, too, only her concern was more pressing. She glanced to Clark, and then to me. This was real. This could happen. The diner could be sold and torn down.
“Can we get some fries and milkshakes?” the table in front of me asked. The teenage girls from the all-girls school were back for a visit, sitting in their pre-assigned seated locations. Funny how people do that. Staring up at me with freckles and dimples, a set of braces, and even a little acne, were the familiar faces of Blonde, Black, Red, and Brown. I assumed from the chatter and banter that they were all friends again. Brown’s companion from the other day was notably absent, and I wasn’t about to bring up that little sunburn lie. Let them stay friends for at least ten minutes. A small giggle pressed behind my lips.
“So, no to the coffees?” I directed toward Blonde in a sarcastic tone. The three other girls turned to Blonde, wide eyed.
A whisper of “really?” came from one, while another answered,
“I know, right?” I tried not to laugh, but Blonde smirked, and then giggled herself, and answered,
“No, no coffee today. Some french fries and milkshakes. I think three chocolates and one vanilla, right? Oh, and an extra straw.” The other girls nodded, with Red waving that the extra straw was for her. I remembered. A minute later, and they were engrossed in teenage talk, their time with me completed. Brown kept her head up long enough to catch my eyes, and, when I saw her, she motioned to my arm where the flower petals had changed colors and wilted some. I grinned a thank you for the concern, and she dove back into the chattering amongst her friends.
Milkshakes and fries, a deadly combination. Add some ketchup, and you’re hitting upon a true local delicacy; the locals being the girls at my table, that is. By the time the milkshakes and fries were served to them, Keep on Truckin´ had joined me at the counter, as did one Detective Ramiz. Clark kept his eyes on the grill, and Ms. Potts tended to the booths in her section. And I am sure she left one eye working the tables, while the other stayed on the detective. The air felt electric again; it felt uncomfortable. Thankfully, it wasn’t as heavy as before.
Twenty minutes into a second serving for Keep on Truckin´, and another plate of fries for the girls, the detective stayed seated at the counter, his coffee steamy and black, having ordered nothing more. No manila envelope came from across the counter. No accusations. No commentary. No questions.
In my head, I heard my father’s voice calling out Donut. It was his voice from the day I’d seen him at the clinic. And it was the last time I’d heard him call me by that name. I heard his voice again. Until now, I assumed Tommy’s parents must have contacted my Daddy and Momma. How else would they know where I was, or that I was a waitress in Philadelphia, and at Angela’s Diner? But with the detective across from me, would he have called? Could he have called them? The last thing he said during a recent visit was: Call your parents – children should be civil to their parents.
“Thoughts got your mind twisted up, do they?” Detective Ramiz blurted over the counter. His voice cut through my contemplation, and I flinched.
“How so?”
“I can see you’re up in your head about something.
Want to share it? Maybe something I can help you out with? Maybe these two, here, you’re working with told you a little something you need to share with me?” he answered, and sucked down more of his coffee. Keep on Truckin´ gave the detective an odd look, and then turned back to me. I realized Keep on Truckin´ hadn’t seen the detective before. He didn’t know who this man was, or why he would be making propositions. I nodded to Keep on Truckin´. I appreciated him looking out for me.
“Call your parents yet?” the detective continued, and motioned for more coffee.
“Why? Why do you care if I call my parents, or not?” I remarked, and shook my head, annoyed.
“Children should be civil to their parents is all. Not a matter of respect or disrespect. Just civil, like you’re being with me right now. Civil,” he answered, exposing his round nubby teeth in a pretend smile. “I’m trying to finish my job with this last open case, and, in doing so, your friends, here, are going to be affected. Yet, you can be civil, can’t you?” When he finished, I poured the coffee and didn’t say a word. He had a point.
Memories of my parents came to my mind. I saw images go by, like flipping through an old photo book. From birthday parties, to learning how to ride a bike. And then I saw my father walking away from me, his hands pressing against his head, as people with signs poked at me with wooden posts, throwing rotting tomatoes at me while screaming. I could feel tears swelling my eyes, and I pulled a needed breath. If only they knew… if only they knew that they may have been the ones who killed my baby.
“Parents need to be civil, too,” was all I could think to say, and moved on to pour Keep on Truckin´ more coffee.
“Gabby, you gonna be okay?” Keep on Truckin´ asked, a piece of food dancing from the tip of his mustache as his lips moved.
“Thanks, I’ll be fine,” I rushed out, and swiped at one of the tears that got away.
An Order of Coffee and Tears Page 14