Giving It Up

by Amber Lin

  “Yes, he looks very strong, which is always good in a man, I should think. My William was strong too, don’t you know? Well, until the very end, bless his heart. Thirty-two years, it was. Now tell me, how long have you been married?”

  She tilted her head at me, her eyes bright with expectation. Motherfucking hell.

  Lies ran through my head, as stupid as that would be. Of course she’d find out, and what was the point of that? I couldn’t be ashamed of this. I’d done a lot worse in my life than live with a man who wasn’t my husband.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “We aren’t married.”

  “Oh.” Now it was her turn to gape like a fish. To her credit she recovered quickly. “You know, that is okay. Don’t you worry your pretty head about that. I know how young people carry on these days.”

  I had a strong suspicion she had no fucking clue how young people carried on these days, but I wasn’t going to tell her that.

  A squawk from the kitchen knocked me from my daze, and I rushed in with Linda on my heels. Bailey just squealed and kicked, eager to join the conversation. Linda blinked a few times, and then must have decided this was all part of the carrying on.

  “Oh, you pretty girl,” she exclaimed to Bailey. “And what is your name?”

  Somewhat awkwardly, as if I were interrupting the conversation, I said, “Her name’s Bailey.”

  Linda didn’t miss a beat. “Bailey! Beautiful Bailey, is that what they call you? Yes, you are. Yes, you are. Oh, yes, you are.”

  Bailey preened.

  “You sweet thing. You pretty girl,” Linda cooed.

  Bailey offered up a smooshed strawberry chunk atop a chubby palm. I rolled my eyes. The girl sure knew how to work an audience.

  “Oh, thank you. Yes, thank you.” Linda accepted the strawberry chunk and held it behind her, where I slipped it from her hand and into the trash can. We grown-ups had to stick together.

  Linda turned to me. “Listen, sweetie. I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got to run. But you know you can come and stop by anytime. I’m a great listener, you know, if you’re ever having problems. Not that you would. You’re such a dear. I’ll see you around.”

  As she went through the living room she picked up Mouse, whose long, thick body hung like a pendulum from where she’d clasped him to her chest. And then she was gone through the front door in a whoosh of bouncing auburn-gray curls and fresh air.

  “Wow,” I said to Bailey. “That was new.”

  “Baba?” She offered me another strawberry bit in her palm, which I accepted and plopped in my mouth.

  “Thanks,” I told her, “but I’m much harder to impress. Poop in the potty; then we’ll talk.”

  I wiped the red strawberry film off a sleepy baby and carted her upstairs. She drifted off to sleep after the fourteenth verse of “Hush, Little Baby.” And thank goodness too. I’d already promised to buy her a tutu, a tricycle, and a host of other things well beyond her pay grade. Not that Colin would mind. He’d probably buy her a castle if she crooked her pudgy little finger at it.

  I shook my head. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand about spoiling her. He wanted to spoil her. It was like some little-boy-lost redemption drama playing out in our own home. The worst thing was that I was probably part of it. Somehow his white-knight radar had settled on the two of us. We made a quaint picture, this family, and I only hoped it would last. However it had started, on a whim or just an accident of fate, I liked to think we’d built something real by now.

  Things were good, very good.

  Back downstairs, I prepped the strawberry-rhubarb filling and crumble topping and set it to bake. Then I pulled the clothes from the dryer and into the basket, the warm scent of spring filling the laundry room. A shuffle behind me caught my attention, but before I could turn, I was spun around and slammed into the wall. Struggling to gasp for air, I saw the sneering face of a cop. One of the cops who’d come around earlier, poking around about Colin. Shay, Shat, Shaw—that was it. Detective Fucking Shaw, the asshole.

  How did he get in? The front door. I probably hadn’t locked it after Linda left. Too damned complacent. Should’ve known better.

  “Hi, Allie.” He smiled an ugly smile.

  “Where’s your partner?” I gasped. Despite his quiet intensity, I’d trusted the other guy much more.

  “Oh, just on a break,” he said. My mind flashed to Bailey sleeping upstairs, and I prayed she kept sleeping. “Thought we’d just have a little talk, you and me.” He waved a manila folder that I hadn’t noticed before in my face. “Take a look.”

  Hesitantly I accepted the folder from his hands.

  A picture of Rick leaving, swinging loading doors behind him. The next one was me pushing Bailey through that same door in an overfull grocery cart, glancing behind me. The last picture was me and Jacob sitting across from each other, the broken blinds of the diner window behind us.

  My mind latched onto inane details first. How had they even known about these meetings? I suppose they were following me. Where had the photographer been sitting in the diner? From that angle it looked to be a booth across the restaurant. Maybe a cell phone camera, although I’d been so wrapped up in the conversation, I probably wouldn’t have noticed full-fledged paparazzi.

  But none of that mattered, because it was clear what these were—leverage. They’d wanted information on Colin and Philip, and I’d refused. Now he was back, bringing pictures that threatened to tear Colin and me apart.

  “That’s right,” he said, nodding approvingly like I’d done a neat trick. “Your little sugar daddy wouldn’t be too pleased to see these, would he? Doesn’t allow you to sleep around, does he?”

  It didn’t matter that Colin meant so much more to me than a sugar daddy; that actually made it worse. And it didn’t matter that I hadn’t slept with these guys; if Colin saw them, he would be extremely and rightfully pissed. I damned myself a million times for not telling him. Rather, for not telling him again, when he was sober and awake. And still I thought I should do just that. I had some hope that it wouldn’t mean the end of us. Maybe he could understand why I’d had to meet Jacob and why I’d kept it from him. It was worth a shot and definitely better than whoring for this guy.

  He must have taken my silence for acquiescence. “I need information on shipping routes,” he said. “Only Philip Murphy will have that, understand? I need you to get close to him and give me the dates and locations of the drops, see?”

  I handed the pictures back. “No.”

  “Now, now, don’t be stupid. I could have you written up for conspiracy, drug trafficking, anything I fucking want. Hell, I could even say you propositioned me and arrest you for prostitution.”

  He leaned close. There was nowhere to go. “Who would take care of your little girl, then?” he asked.

  I shut my eyes against the wash of rancid breath. Oh fuck, oh fuck, that wasn’t helping. I needed to fucking think. What could I do? I wasn’t sure if he was right, but it sounded pretty convincing, and I really didn’t want to test it out. If I got arrested, Bailey would go into the system. They wouldn’t grant custody to Shelly or Colin, either, but put her in a group home. Or worse, give her to some stranger who might do God knows what with her. Fuck. Even Jacob would have been better than that, but he’d already signed away any legal claim to her.

  I felt a hand on my neck, and I stopped breathing. I held it even as that hand traveled lower.

  “I just want to help you,” he whispered.

  No, no, this couldn’t be happening. Not again.

  It didn’t seem possible, and I held on to that thought. If this wasn’t happening…fuck, let this not be happening. Both his hands touched me. There, on my breasts, and down lower, to my jeans. Just over my clothes, the thick barrier of my jeans, but it was enough.

  I felt like I was underwater, hearing and feeling everything through deep waters. Maybe it was better this way.

  He touched me for an eternity, or maybe just a few minutes, before
he stopped. I didn’t know why he stopped. In that objective sort of detachment, my mind wondered at it. What made a bad man stop when he could go further? Was it just that this left no marks, no bruises, or fluids or anything else, and so made it easy to get away with?

  He muttered into my ear, “I know about the little Murphy family dinner. Get me what I need, and you’ll be free.”

  Then he was away from me, though my eyes were strangely fuzzy. The slam of the door and boot steps down the stairs signaled his retreat, if I could call it that. More like a victory dance, I thought. Tires squealed from the front of the house as he drove away.

  I slid to the ground.

  What a lie. I’d never be free.

  I would have lost it completely, right then. It was close, hovering right there on the precipice. Even in my breakdown I was practical. Even broken and insane with my private grief, I loved Bailey. So I crawled across the floor to the phone on the side table.

  I heard Shelly’s voice. “Hello?”

  “Can you come?” I heard myself ask in a hoarse voice.

  “Allie? What’s wrong? Allie! Okay, I’m coming over,” and then a click. It was good to have a friend.

  A shout and rattle of the baby gate told me Bailey was up. I was a mother first. No rest for the wicked. I dragged myself up the stairs, brought her down, and plopped her in front of the television. I figured impending mental collapse was as good of an excuse as any for bad parenting.

  I curled up on the couch, watching the dancing letters. Sanity slid away like a balloon lost at a carnival. I felt its loss with relief.

  “Allie? What happened?” Shelly’s voice, garbled and distant. She was still above the surface, but I was down, down, down. Thank God she was here, I thought, someone to watch over Bailey. Because down here it was black.

  The doctors and nurses left, leaving only the two cops on either side of my hospital bed. The woman cop shifted on her feet, very pregnant.

  “Go on down,” the man told her. “I’ll wrap up and meet you there.”

  She bit her lip, deliberating. She probably didn’t want to appear weak, like she wasn’t holding her weight against a man. Then again, she looked very uncomfortable. That appeared to win out, because she nodded and said, “I’ll see you in the cafeteria.”

  “You’ll be okay,” she said, squeezing my hand. “It wasn’t your fault.” Practiced words, probably recited to all the rape victims, but they warmed me. Maybe there was hope.

  After she left the room, the man took off his jacket and draped it across the foot of the bed. He questioned me, scribbling my answers on a notepad.

  Yes, I knew my assailant. We’d been friends.

  No, I hadn’t had sex with him before. Not with anyone.

  Yes, I told him no. I’m sure he heard me.

  The cop had just been a person-shaped blob to me in that room full of people. But he’d come closer to the bed, and only then did I notice his eyes were green. Green eyes, so rare. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen them before in real life. At least not ones so brilliant, so bright. The green eyes were narrowed.

  “Reporting a rape is an important matter, Ms. Winters.”

  I said nothing. He shifted closer to the bed.

  “I can see that you’re upset,” he said. “But false accusations of rape have serious implications.”

  I sucked in a breath. False accusations?

  He pushed aside the flimsy paper that clothed me, exposing my breasts. “I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about you.”

  No, I’d been wrong. There wasn’t any hope.

  He pulled out a condom, speaking calmly while he put it on. “I wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re a slut.”

  She’d been wrong too, the other cop. I wouldn’t be okay.

  “Look at me,” he said. I refused, but his hand firmly turned my head toward him.

  He pulled my face closer, until I looked him right in the eye. I shut my eyes.

  “Nobody likes a tease,” he said. “But don’t worry. I can get you through this.”

  I wanted to die. I prayed that I would, that second, but no one heard me. No one cared.

  It was my fault. It had to be, or why else would this be happening? It didn’t make sense. Make it stop.

  And I thought, then, in the absence of any fucking clue of what to do, I would do as I was told. I’d said no before, and it hadn’t worked. It had only made him angry. With my eyes tightly shut, I opened my mouth to protest, to scream, but nothing came out.

  “That’s right,” he whispered. “I can help you.”

  I tried to open my eyes, but they were weighted shut. No, they were already open; it was just dark in here. It hadn’t been dark when I’d last been awake. What time was it?

  I rustled in the linens. Bed. I was in bed. And it was night.

  Fuck it all to hell.

  That meant Colin would have come home. What had Shelly told him?

  I had to think of some sort of excuse, something Colin would believe. I sure as hell wasn’t telling him the truth, not about what happened today, and not where it had taken my mind. Wouldn’t believe me anyway…

  Don’t think about it. It was too late.

  My mouth felt thick, my head too large, and my limbs sluggish. It was all the pain of a hangover but without the bliss of forgetfulness. No, I remembered every fucking detail from earlier today. Even things that hadn’t registered in that strange moment of disconnect came to me now. The smell of the cop’s aftershave, the rasp of the hair on the back of his hands, the harshness of his breaths. Make it stop.

  I had to even my breathing. If I was going to play this off as a stomach bug or something, then I shouldn’t be in the middle of a panic attack. That was it, rational thoughts. Keep breathing.

  Ever the coward, I wondered how long I could stay here. I heard faint clinking in the kitchen—someone was cooking dinner. That was good. Someone had Bailey. Someone was in control of the situation. How long could I lie here before that someone came to find me? It was a very nice cocoon, Colin’s bedroom.

  Staring into the darkness, I heard soft thumps up the steps. Then whispers outside the door. Without moving I tried to make them out.

  “…still sleeping…”

  “…shouldn’t wake…rest.”

  “…been four hours…”

  The door creaked, and a band of yellow light fell across the bed. I shut my eyes. The floor creaked as someone walked toward the bed. I steadied my breathing. The floor creaked again as someone walked out. Then a soft click as the door shut.

  I opened my eyes again to the dark. I couldn’t sleep. I wouldn’t. It would just invite the nightmare back. That was the one that came to me—not what happened with Jacob. And even then it was a rare thing. Usually only after seeing a cop. Sometimes even seeing a cop car would trigger me.

  There’d been a neat row of cop cars when I’d gone to the police station to withdraw my complaint the next week. I’d worried myself into vomiting, thinking I’d have to see him there. But I hadn’t. It had all been very formal, very bureaucratic. There were forms to fill out, and a statement to sign. It had been a misunderstanding, that night with Jacob. I’d been drunk and hadn’t really said no, and so it wasn’t really rape, after all. The cops there, in uniform instead of in a suit like he had been, looked at me blankly. They did not judge me when I was a rape victim, and they did not judge me when I was a false accuser, recanting her statement. They just didn’t care.

  But it was in those days that I’d formed my crazy ideas. Even then I knew they were crazy. All men couldn’t be bad. My dad wasn’t bad, even if he was gone a lot. Besides that, there had to be plenty of examples of good guys if I’d cared to look. But I hadn’t wanted to look, not at all.

  I’d made the decision then never to have sex with a guy. More than that, I wouldn’t even put myself in a situation where I’d be near a guy.

  Then I’d found out I was pregnant. Holy fuck.

  I’d thought about trying to reach
Jacob. His dad was a fucker of the worst sort, but he might have Jacob’s phone number or a way to reach him. In the end I didn’t do anything.

  My dad probably guessed who the father was. Jacob had been my best friend, and then he was gone and I was pregnant. It was an age-old story, right? But he never said anything. He just gave me some cash and told me he’d send what he could.

  After I’d had Bailey, it had taken a few months to heal, physically at least. Only after that had I come up with the idea of date nights. I’d thought it ingenious. Now I knew I’d been an idiot.

  I’d hurt myself on those date nights, over and over again.

  It hadn’t been about those guys, not really. They’d been props, whips used for self-flagellation. I thought maybe Shelly’s deals were flays of her own whip and that was troubling, but we’d agreed not to interfere. After they’d let her into the hospital room with me and I’d dry heaved for an hour, she’d apologized to me in whispered tones for making me do this. She hadn’t protested when I’d gone into the police station to withdraw my statement. She hadn’t guessed what had happened, I thought, not then nor ever, but she saw what it did to me. She didn’t understand why, but she didn’t want me to be hurt.

  The cocoon grew stifling. Suddenly I wanted to see people, these people who cared about me, God knew why. I still didn’t know what excuse I would make, but surely I could think of something. I wanted to leech their comfort, their normalcy.

  I descended the stairs, feeling an odd remoteness. There should be pictures here, I thought, as I trailed my finger along the blank stairway wall. At the bottom I found Shelly and Bailey on the couch in the living room, playing a game of cards. I paused there in the corner, watching.

  I knew from experience how Bailey played. We would deal the cards, in whatever number and setup we wanted, and Bailey would grab for the face cards—the kings, queens and jacks—and collect them. I always figured it was a pretty decent strategy for a toddler.

  She’d probably grow up a card shark and best us all. I could only hope as much. Maybe it wasn’t the doctor or president that other moms hoped for, but it was all about power in the end. The money, the respect, and not having to take shit from no one. That power came in different forms in my world, but no less potent.