Martha muttered something.
“Speak up, girl.” Mr. Jamieson snapped his fingers in front of Martha’s face. When that didn’t produce the desired results, he was off again, rechecking every room in the apartment.
The front door flew open, right as Mr. Jamieson finished investigating Martha’s room for the third or fourth time. Elena and Brandi rushed in. Elena’s coat was open, sweat beads dotted her cheeks that had somehow managed to be both pale and flushed at the same time. Several strands of copper hair stuck to her sweaty chin. She was panting.
“Daddy. What are you doing here?”
Mr. Jamieson ran up the steps, taking two at a time. “Elena, where are your belongings? We’re leaving immediately.”
Elena stared at her father, opened her mouth to answer, and burst into tears.
Chapter 29
The rest of the night went downhill from there.
Amid much crying and recriminations, Elena spilled out the entire living-arrangement story. If I hadn’t felt so sorry for her, I might have laughed at Mr. Jamieson’s expressions. He kept vacillating between relief Elena wasn’t living in a stalking situation and anger about whom she was living with. Eventually, he regained control of the situation – collecting Elena and herding her out the door.
“That was fun,” Brandi said as the door closed behind them.
I disappeared into the bedroom without answering.
“Oh Kit,” I heard her sigh before I shut the door.
I spent another night tossing and turning and another morning waking with a splitting headache and aching chest. Every time I sucked air into my lungs, a dangerous-sounding rattle reverberated deep in my chest. My old friend CF no doubt had decided on a more intimate acquaintance. Lucky me.
Pulling on a pair of torn blue sweats, I went to check out the kitchen. The apartment was empty. Good. I didn’t think I could deal with either of my roommates right now.
Glancing at the kitchen clock, I saw it was already past noon. Much later than I normally slept. I put the kettle on the stove to boil and took out bread and peanut butter. Only think about food. No disturbing thoughts before breakfast. That would just be asking for heartburn.
The doorbell rang. I froze. David. My stomach shrunk to the size of a walnut. I was alone. What should I do?
First, take a deep breath. I did, only to be rewarded with a coughing fit. While I struggled to stop, the doorbell rang a few more times.
The person at the door didn’t necessarily have to be David, I thought, forcing my stiffened legs to hobble into the living room. I picked up the portable phone. That’s what peepholes are for. So I can see who’s there before I open the door. And if it is David, I can call 9-1-1 right there without him even knowing I’m home.
The doorbell continued to buzz as I crept down the stairs. Persistent little bastard. My palms were so slick with sweat I nearly dropped the phone. I peered through the peephole.
Not David. Thank God. I was so busy sighing with relief it didn’t register for a few moments who was standing there.
Mr. Jamieson.
Sighing, I unlocked the door and opened it, but not before I put the chain on. Paranoid to the last. “Mr. Jamieson,” I said as politely as I could muster through the crack. “What can I do for you?”
He face sagged. Like he had gotten about as much sleep as I had. He wore an expensive-looking overcoat that seemed a bit too thin for the weather. “I’d like to come in.”
“Why?”
The question surprised me almost as much as it did him. Before David, I probably would have let him in without question. No more.
“Why?” he repeated.
“Yes, why? Neither Elena nor Martha are here right now, so why do you need to come in?”
“I need to collect some of her belongings. She didn’t take everything when she moved in with that no-good, loser boyfriend.”
Christ, not again. Have him digging around the apartment a second time. What if there was something here Elena didn’t want her father to see? What happened last night was bad enough, I didn’t need to make it any worse.
“Look, Mr. Jamieson,” I said as reasonably as I could. “I’m not feeling very well right now. Why don’t I get her stuff together and you can come by later with Elena and get it, okay?” I tried to emphasize the Elena part.
“I’m here now, so why don’t you let me in and we can get this done.” When he said it, it wasn’t a question.
Obviously he didn’t hear my emphasis. Now I was annoyed. Why couldn’t anyone respect my wishes?
“Mr. Jamieson, you need to come back with Elena, all right? I don’t feel comfortable letting you in without her.”
His expression sharpened, turned more wolf-like. “You’re the one being stalked, aren’t you?”
This just kept getting more and more annoying. “Mr. Jamieson, I fail to see what that has to do with anything.”
“It’s the reason why you won’t let me in.”
I tapped my fingers against the doorframe. “All right, fine. You win. I’m the one being stalked and I’m not going to let you in.”
“Why don’t you let me in and maybe I can help you?” He licked his lips and smiled, looking more and more like some sort of predator.
Now I definitely wasn’t letting him. “Mr. Jamieson, come back with Elena.” I started to shut the door.
“Wait.” He stepped closer to the door. “You can’t keep me out. I pay the rent.”
I stared at him. “Now, Mr. Jamieson, you’re a smart lawyer. I don’t think I need to tell you that the names on the lease are mine, Brandi’s and Elena’s, not yours. And since Elena is over eighteen, she is considered an adult in the eyes of the law. And that means you have no rights here, regardless of whether you’re paying the rent or not.”
His eyes widened. Now his expression looked more like a goggle-eyed fish, amazed it had been caught. I took advantage of his surprise and shut the door.
I had no sooner started up the steps when the doorbell rang again. What is this man’s issue? I opened the door a crack.
“Look,” Mr. Jamieson said. “I’m sorry you’re being stalked. But I didn’t come here to waste my time. If you won’t let me in, would you at least bring her belongings to me? Three boxes, labeled, in Martha’s room.”
Christ, what on earth could be so important? Maybe I could call Elena on her cell phone, ask her what this was all about.
“Fine,” I said to Mr. Jamieson and shut the door again. While walking down the steps to Martha’s room, I dialed Elena’s number.
Her answer was curt. “Give him whatever he wants. I don’t care anymore.” She hung up without saying goodbye. What was that about? Was she mad at me? Things just kept getting better and better. I opened the door to Martha’s room.
My first impression was the odor – sweetish, like pot, but smokier, with darker undertones. At least part of the scent came from various kinds of incense strewed about her dresser. A white bra lay draped over her boom box.
It was an understatement to describe the place as a mess. Books, papers, dirty dishes, clothes everywhere. Empty pizza boxes and Chinese takeout cartons poked out from underneath the unmade bed. Screwing up my nose, I picked my way across the room. I had been in fraternity houses cleaner than this. She couldn’t even carry some of trash out to the dumpster? Unbelievable. Brandi better never get a whiff of this or she would be calling the Orkin man.
Elena’s things had been stacked in the corner. Good thing she had left her belongings in boxes, otherwise they probably would have found a way to join the party on the floor and no one would have seen them again.
A heap of wrinkled shirts and a pair of green cotton underwear with a hole in the crotch lay on top of the boxes. The shirts appeared to be clean – the underwear not. Incredible. Maybe I should have let Mr. Jamieson in – he could have dealt
with Martha’s dirty underwear. Next to the boxes stood a small wooden filing cabinet with an opened box of tampons and an empty bottle of Cooks champagne stacked on top. The bottle caught my eye. Martha’s drinking champagne? This bears closer scrutiny.
A couple more bottles lay in front of the cabinet. Not champagne, though. Red wine. Cheap red wine.
I picked up the champagne bottle. There was a faint smear of soft pink lipstick on the neck. Martha’s wearing lipstick? Hard to picture. Maybe she had a lesbian lover who wore lipstick. Actually easier to picture than Martha wearing lipstick.
The top drawer of the filing cabinet stood partway open, just begging to be looked into. I leaned over to oblige it. After all, I reasoned, I hadn’t actually opened anything, so I really wasn’t snooping. Moreover, that drawer wanted me to look into it.
Scholarship info, school records, tax receipts. Files everyone had. Normal stuff. Boringly normal. But then, I noticed a file with Brandi’s name.
Puzzled, I pulled it out. Why would Martha have a file with Brandi’s name on it? Surely she couldn’t be the secret lover. Besides, that wasn’t Brandi’s shade of lipstick on the bottle.
The file contained only a couple of sheets of paper. On top was a photocopy of a check. Made out to Planned Parenthood. And signed by Tommy.
Tommy kissing Brandi. Oh, God. I sunk to my knees, my legs unable to hold me up anymore, my mouth dry and sandy.
I forced my stiff fingers to turn the sheet over. Paperwork from Planned Parenthood swam before my eyes. Focus, Kit. I blinked a couple of times. Patient: Brandi Sanders. Services rendered: pregnancy termination.
Pregnancy termination.
Abortion.
Brandi had an abortion.
And Tommy paid for it.
Tommy was the father.
Tommy kissing Brandi.
Oh, God. I squeezed my hands together so hard I crumpled the file. Oh, God. Tommy kissing Brandi.
A coughing spasm jerked me back to reality. Christ, I was having a nervous breakdown in Martha’s room surrounded by her dirty underwear and unopened mail. I dragged myself to my feet and stumbled out of her room.
Shutting the door, I leaned against it, trying to focus my thoughts. Tommy kissing Brandi. I couldn’t get that image out of my head.
The doorbell rang, making me jump. Mr. Jamieson. I had forgotten about him. As I went back in to fetch the boxes, a part of me wished I had just let Mr. Jamieson get them himself. Then I could have remained happily ignorant.
***
Some time later, I’m not sure how much later, Brandi came home.
She stood at the landing, studying me. I was sitting in the easy chair, staring at nothing, the papers laid out on the coffee table in front of me.
She took a hesitant step into the living room. “Up for a chat?”
I didn’t look at her, merely waved in the direction of the coffee table. She looked down, read the papers, looked at me.
“How’d you find them?”
“Does it matter?” I asked tonelessly.
She sighed, sat on the couch. “I guess not.” She pushed her coat off, fished her cigarettes out of her purse.
I watched her fiddle with the pack, saw her eyes linger on the boarded up window.
“Just smoke the damn things if you want to so much,” I said.
She half-smiled. “Yeah, what does that say about me? Smoking in front of someone with Cystic Fibrosis?”
“I sit in smoky bars. I go to smoky parties. It’s pretty hypocritical of me to tell you not to smoke in front of me.”
She tapped her pack again, extracting a cigarette. “Well, when you put it that way … ” Fumbling for her lighter, she lit up.
“So.” I winced as she sucked the smoke deep into her lungs. Just watching her made me want to cough. “Ready to explain?”
She studied the ceiling, slowly exhaling smoke from her nose. “Tommy and I did date. For about three months. Four years ago.”
I rubbed my face. Maybe I didn’t want to hear this. “How come you never told me?”
Brandi shrugged. “It was the summer between freshman and sophomore year. Most of the gang had gone home for the summer. Tommy and I were basically the only two on campus. Tommy stayed because of some special football camp or something. I think he was making up a class in summer school as well, I can’t remember now. I stayed because Ellen was in detox – again – and I didn’t feel like dealing with her. I don’t know where you were, since you’re usually here in the summer.”
I did. I was home recovering from too much partying. Too bad I hadn’t learned my lesson by now.
“Anyway,” she continued. “Tommy and I started going out to bars and movies and such mostly because it was convenient. We really didn’t know anyone else. I suppose it was inevitable that something would happen between us. And one night, it did.”
She sucked down another lungful of smoke. “I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice to say in those couple of months of sleeping together, I fell in love and he was having a good time.”
Brandi paused to tap some of the ash off her cigarette onto the glass coffee table, pointedly not looking at me. “The rest of the story is even more clichéd. I got pregnant, accidentally, but I still used it. I think deep down I actually expected him to propose once he found out I was pregnant. But, alas, that’s not how the real world works. A gentleman to the end, he offered to pay for the abortion. I accepted his offer once I got it through my thick head that was all I could expect from the relationship.”
My head was pounding now, so hard I could hear the ringing echoing in my ears. “I can’t believe neither one of you told me.” My voice seemed very far away.
Brandi shrugged. “Neither one of us told anyone. I was so embarrassed by the whole mess, and ashamed, and pissed off, and still half in love with him. I couldn’t believe I’d fallen so hard for someone who didn’t love me back. After awhile, the only emotion left was anger. And revenge. That’s why I kept a copy of the check and the paperwork. I figured one day I could find a way to use it against Tommy. But, as it turned out, it bit me in the butt again.”
She bit her lip, studied her cigarette. “Chuck was the first man after Tommy I fell in love with. And he loved me, too. But then he found out about the abortion. At heart he’s still a good Catholic boy. It didn’t help that Violet lost no time comforting him.”
“Oh, Brandi,” I said, sick with emotion. On one hand, I felt so bad for Brandi. On the other, so betrayed by her. By both of them. “You should have told me. Either you or Tommy. Especially once we started dating.”
“Yeah, and to think I got to watch you break his heart when I was expecting him to break yours. I figured once he did, you and I would commiserate and figure out a way to get even with him. Instead … well, I was just so pissed watching you throw away something I would’ve sold my soul for.”
This was too much. I massaged my pounding temples with my fingers. If only my headache would stop, maybe I could think. “But that kiss … Are you two still seeing each other?”
Brandi let out a bark of laughter. “Are you kidding? He’s nuts over you and he was never that way about me.” She stared straight into my eyes. “What you saw was a pity kiss. That’s it. I finally told him why Chuck broke up with me. He’d always suspected it. And, to his credit, he seemed to feel genuinely bad about it. So, he gave me a kiss. That’s all.”
I watched the smoke drift down to the mud brown carpet, trying to digest what she had told me. Did I believe her? It seemed so unreal. But then, my whole life seemed unreal right now. Why should this be any different?
“I have to go take something.” I stood up and headed to the bathroom. Everything hurt. My head, my chest. I needed something to dull the pain.
After swallowing several pills, a few extra than what was prescribed, I returned to the living room. Brand
i was staring at the ceiling, blowing smoke straight up in the air.
“What I still don’t get,” I said, leaning against the chair, “is why Martha had that file.”
Brandi exhaled, smoke billowing out. “Now that’s an interesting story. Much more interesting than my pathetic tale.” She tapped the ash off her cigarette and lowered her chin to look at me.
I opened my mouth to speak when I heard a key turn in the lock.
“Speak of the devil,” Brandi said, as Martha clumped up the stairs.
Except that it wasn’t Martha. Well, it was her, but not her. She wore a short silky white dress, nylons and high heels. She had on makeup – soft, natural looking makeup – and her hair was up in a French twist.
My mouth dropped open. She looked amazing. Not beautiful exactly, but arresting. My head reeled.
Brandi, noticing my expression, shifted her body so she could see Martha. “Well, well,” she said, her voice cool and dangerous. “So, that explains how you did it.”
Did it? I glanced at Brandi, but her attention was on Martha.
Martha sniffed. “Saw no reason to hide it anymore. Elena’s moved out.”
“Hide what? What are you two talking about?”
Brandi stretched, slowly and languidly, before rising to her feet. “What are we talking about, Martha? That’s a very good question, isn’t it?”
Martha gnawed her lip. “Thought she knew.”
“No, she doesn’t know. She’s pretty much clueless. In fact, she’s so clueless she thinks I’m the one sleeping with Brad.”
I started. “What?”
Martha stared at me. “You think Brandi’s sleeping with Brad? Too much.” She began to laugh.
I whirled around to Brandi. “Are you telling me that Martha is the one who’s sleeping with Brad? Martha?”
“Among others,” Brandi answered dryly. She shot Martha a disdainful gaze. “Many others.”
The Stolen Twin Page 25