by Naomi West
“Did the officer say anything?” I ask. “Is there going to be a manhunt or is this all above board?” I laugh gruffly. “Or as above board as things like this can be.”
“It’s all above board,” the nurse says, smiling at me. We really must have helped her old man out. She reminds me of my mother. Memories of fresh-baked cookies and Christmas carols and flower-smelling hugs come to me. “I heard the lady detective shouting into her cellphone. I think her boss has told her to back off.”
“So why …” I nod to the staircase.
“Why the back way? Because I heard the man detective saying he was going to round up some of his friends and—I don’t want to repeat the words he used.”
“That’s okay, ma’am,” I say. “I can imagine.”
“Now you make sure you rest that arm,” she calls after me as I walk down the stairs.
“Rest it?” I grin up at her. “After everything that’s happened, I need a goddamn drink!”
“A drink?” The nurse reaches out her hand as if to catch me. She reminds me of my mom, standing on our porch when I’d go riding out on the dirt bike. “Just be careful!”
“Much obliged.”
I open the door and walk into the night, whistling under my breath. Sometimes it’s damn good being a Saint.
Chapter Two
Selena
The paramedics barge past me, pulling a stretcher. I catch a glimpse of the guy: tall at around six foot two; hair as red as fire; clean-shaved, with a wicked mouth that I can imagine smiling if he wasn’t passed out; strong-looking, with muscles pressing through his hoodie. I find myself thinking it’s a shame someone so good-looking has been shot, and then feel guilty for the thought.
My thoughts have been scattered like leaves lately. Maybe it’s Clint, haunting me now as he haunted me for years. Maybe it’s the idea that Clint will emerge like a jack-in-the-box and spring right into my face, cackling madly. “I asked you to clean the draining board. I’m sure I asked you to do that. Well, didn’t I? Didn’t I?” And there I stood, timid, mouse-like, less than a shadow because at least a shadow has some hazy substance.
I walk through the hospital feeling like a zombie. Life isn’t fair, I reflect. If life was fair I wouldn’t be walking up these stairs. I tell myself to stop being so self-pitying. It’s strange, but I was less self-pitying when the horror was happening. It seems hindsight has let me see how screwed up things really were.
I pause outside Mom’s room and take a deep breath. I’ve visited her every day since she was moved here and I still feel dread fall over me each time I’m about to open the door. I think of all the times Mom carried me as a kid, lifting me over her head and holding me to the sky until I truly believed I was going to fly away. Jasmin Selwyn was a strong woman, the type of woman who seemed like a sturdy tree to me as a child. Nothing could harm her, I believed. Nothing could penetrate that thick oak.
I open the door and walk to her bed, where she lies like a fallen bird. She’s skinnier than I’ve ever seen her, bordering on anorexic. Her gorgeous blonde hair has fallen out, replaced with a yellow bandana instead. Her cheeks are sunken, her eyes heavy with dark bags. She turns her head slowly at my entrance. A tiny smile touches her gray lips. “It’s …” She wheezes and closes her eyes. Her lungs are failing her; her body has deserted her.
“Mom.” I sit down and hold her hand. I can feel the bones poking through her skin like twigs through wet paper. “How are you doing today?”
“Fine.” She gives my hand a pitifully weak squeeze. “The doctor is petitioning the health insurance company on my behalf. She is a good person.”
Doctor Ames has been trying to get Mom approved for surgery which might save her life, but of course, the health insurance company has found a loophole which lets them dodge the bill.
“I’ll pay for it,” I say for perhaps the hundredth time.
“Ha!” She coughs out the laugh. “And be in debt for the rest of your life?”
“I’m already in debt.”
“Yes, but that’s civilized debt.”
My student loan bought me an English literature degree which in turn earned me a manager’s job behind the desk at a warehouse sorting center. And yet, the boring job doesn’t bore me. After Clint a little mundanity is welcome.
“Is this civilized?” I gesture to her wasting body. “It makes me sick.” I soften. “Sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean that you make me sick. I meant—”
“I know what you meant. I’m tired, Selena. My bones are tired. My brain is tired. My tongue is tired and my knees are tired. Every part of me is tired. All the little things in your body you never think about are tired. My toes are tired. I wriggle them and I feel as if I’ve just run a marathon. Surgery or darkness—give me either. I can’t wait anymore.”
“Mom.” The tears spring unbidden. “Don’t say that.”
“And I suppose your father has not yet made the trip?”
“No,” I mutter. “He’s still in New York.”
“The big man in the big city burying his face in big titties. You know I wrote his first poem, don’t you, dear? The big fancy poet and I wrote his first poem! The one who made that professor over at NYU write him! Did you know that?”
“Yes.” I lean down and kiss her hand. Her voice is weak but her words are fierce. “I know. You’ve told me before.”
“‘A Kiss of Summer Rain,’” she says. “And there I was, stuck working behind the cash register because he made me stay at home to raise—not that I ever regretted it.”
“I know, Mom. I hate him.” During my time with Clint—my time in hell—I’d often thought about Dad in New York at his expensive dinners while his daughter was in Texas being terrorized. “He should’ve been here for us.”
“It seems the Selwyns are destined to choose bad men.”
“Maybe,” I say quietly.
“And what about you? Have you thought more about children? Twenty-six, Selena. My grandmother had seven children at your age.”
“Poor woman.”
“I’m just saying there was a time when women wanted to raise a family.”
“There was also a time when women couldn’t vote or own property, Mom. Let’s be glad we’ve moved on a little, yeah?”
“Her with these big college ideas!” She rolls her eyes. “I’m not saying women should become broodmares, but what’s wrong with letting your body feel what it feels? If it wants a child …”
“I never said my body wanted a child.” I smooth my fingers over her knuckles.
“But surely you do?” She stares at me, wide-eyed. She has the same green eyes as me, though hers are a little dimmer now.
“One day,” I say.
In truth, I’ve thought a lot about children since Clint and I broke up. My main source of anxiety with Clint was that he might get me pregnant. I’d hide the contraceptive pill in my locker at work and make sure to take it every day. I couldn’t stand the idea of being inextricably tied to him in that way. But since I was freed from that prison, I’ve given it a lot more thought. It was never the idea of having a child that terrified me; it was just having one with Clint. In fact, now every time I see tiny baby’s clothes or a mother cradling her child I feel a sudden urge deep inside of me, as if I can do something truly worthwhile, as if I can give love and be loved. In truth, the urge has been getting stronger as Mom has been getting weaker.
“You’re in the clouds,” Mom says after a long pause.
“I’m just thinking.”
“About babies?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“Don’t maybe me, missy. I see the look in your eye. It’s okay. I know you’re this cool modern chick—”
“I really wish you’d stop talking like that,” I say, giggling. “I work nine to five and spend my evenings watching TV or reading like a hermit—and coming here to visit you. That’s hardly being a cool modern chick, is it?”
“Please don’t interrupt me.” She smiles, but then her face grows dead se
rious. With an effort she leans up, coughing and spluttering, and grips my hand with both of hers. I sit up, watching her closely, shocked by this sudden change. She grips my hand with surprising strength. “I want to talk to you seriously now, Selena.”
“Okay …”
She coughs again, bloody mucus spattering her hospital gown. I’ve seen her cough like that countless times but it never gets easier. I feel myself weakening. This is my mother, my oak-strong mother, the woman who carried me into the world and who’s too young to go like this. She’s only forty-seven, but the illness has aged her by a decade.
“I need you to promise me that you’ll have a child,” she says, wheezing heavily. “I can’t …The insurance company isn’t going to listen to Doctor Ames. Health insurance companies never listen to anybody but the dollar. They don’t care about people like me. I’m going, Selena. I’m going down the long tunnel, and I hope and pray that God is there to meet me.”
“Don’t say that.” Tears slide down my cheeks freely. They taste salty in my mouth. “You don’t know. Don’t say that!”
“I know.” She nods shortly. “I know what’s waiting for me. And I’ll face it as bravely as I’m able. But I can’t go into the darkness thinking about you never having a child because of that sick, evil man. Clint.” She says the name like a curse. “He can’t rob you of the greatest joy a person can know.” She leans forward, lips trembling. She’s crying even harder than me now. “Promise me, Selena.”
Before I can answer she flies backward into the bed, seized by a coughing fit. I get her a glass of water and wait patiently, watching as she hocks up bits of her insides. Watching a loved one slowly die, fading away like the paling of the moon in daylight, is the hardest thing there is. Selfish thoughts go through my head as she lies there coughing. A car accident, instant death, mourning and moving on …falling down a ladder …tripping over a wire …anything but this slow fading.
Finally, the coughing fit passes. I dab her mouth with a folded-up napkin and bring the cup of water to her lips. She sips, splutters, sips some more. Then she turns to me with a desperate expression, fear etched into each of her features. She’s struggling to stay awake, I can tell.
“You need to look me in the eye and promise me,” she says. “I don’t want to put pressure on you, dear, but I need to know. If I should die tonight, or tomorrow, or in a week or two—I need to know that when I’m gone …Please, Selena, please, promise me!”
Chapter Three
Selena
I walk through the city at night, hands in my pockets, wondering what to do. I could go home where my armchair and Far From the Madding Crowd awaits me, and I suppose I might be able to sink into the world of the novel and forget my problems. But seeing Mom always shakes me up, and tonight it’s done more than that. An earthquake tears through my chest repeatedly. I keep hearing her hollow coughs, her body sounding like it could cave in on itself at any moment.
I share the house with Mom—or perhaps I should say shared the house with Mom, since now she’s living under white fluorescent lights. The idea of returning there after our conversation doesn’t thrill me. Instead I find myself walking toward the nearest bar, a dive-type place with a flashing pink neon lady fixed above the door. It’s the first time I’ve even considered drinking in months. Clint was a drinker and I’ve seen what work it can do on a person. But I’ve always been able to hold my drink, perhaps because Clint would sometimes force it on me and I needed to be careful about what I said and did.
The bar is quiet tonight with a few people dotted around the place. The floor is sticky and the jukebox plays Johnny Cash. I go to the bar and wait for the barman to finish serving a customer. He wears a red bandana with a mullet sticking down his back, a denim jacket, and denim jeans.
“Howdy, purty lady,” he says.
I sigh. Maybe I shouldn’t take my frustration out on him but I can’t help myself. “What do you think is going to happen now?” I ask. “You’re going to come over here and call me purty lady and I’m going to crumble in your arms and—what? Why are you staring at me like that?” My voice has risen to a volume I didn’t intend.
“You’re speaking very loudly, ma’am,” the barman says. “I promise you I didn’t mean no offense. What would you like to drink?”
“Vodka and coke.”
“Double?”
“Sure.”
I take the drink to the corner and sip it slowly, going over what Mom said. She struck a chord she probably wasn’t even trying to strike. There’s no way she can know that I’ve been going over baby names in my free time, scrolling endlessly on my phone through the entire alphabet. Zachary is a name I keep coming back to, and so is Georgina. Isaac and Zane. Elizabeth and Jodie. I can’t explain this urge to myself, no matter how hard I try. I tell myself it’s just biological and I need to stop being so weak, and yet every time I see a baby I feel like melting. Mom isn’t wrong about college; I was a feminist, a member of several activist groups. I should be above this sort of thing. But then, surely feminism and activism mean I get to choose what I want, even if what I want is traditionally feminine?
I rub my head. My drink is empty. I’m not sure when that happened. I go to the bar and get another double vodka and Coke.
“You really hitting the booze tonight?” a man to my right says.
He’s wearing a business suit, is clean-shaven, and relatively handsome. But when I look at him all I see is a man in a jewelry shop trying on watches. He looks like the sort of man to pen a date into his weekly planner alongside “coffee with the boss.” “I’m having some alone time,” I say, turning away.
“Jeez.” The man slides up the bar. “What’s with the attitude?”
“What attitude?” I sigh, wishing my drink would hurry up.
“I’m just being friendly,” the man says. He sticks his hand in my face. He’s wearing a gold pinkie ring. “Don’t you know how to accept when a man’s being friendly? My name’s Craig. Nice to meet you.”
I turn on him, ignoring his outstretched hand. “I think you come to this bar to pick up the type of women who come to this bar.” He takes a step back, stunned. I step forward, speaking right into his face. “You seem like the sort of man who thinks he can whisk into a place like this and choose any woman he wants because your daddy got you a job on the big account. Are you slumming it tonight? Is that it?”
“You’re crazy,” he says, his lips trembling. “I ought to—”
“Ought to what?” I laugh madly. Maybe he’s right about me being crazy. “Did I hit a little too close to home?”
He turns on his heels and paces away, shaking his head. The barman looks at me sideways. “Was that really necessary, ma’am? I’m sure he was just making conversation.”
“You all think that, don’t you? And my mom is desperate for me to sit on one of you people.” I walk toward my table, and then go back to the bar. “Sorry. I know you’re just doing your job. I’m having a bad …I’m sorry.”
I return to the corner and sit down, nursing my drink. The first one is hitting me now. Not hard, not so that I can’t think straight, but hitting me all the same. What I said to the barman was harsh and sharp, but it was somewhat true. To have a baby, you need a man, and Mom knows how my last relationship ended. She remembers the drama and the terror of it all. She was there at the last big battle. She was at my side, my front-line infantry.
I remember it all clearly as I sit here with country music playing on the jukebox, the man in the business suit talking to two ladies in miniskirts and tank tops.
Clint had beaten me bloody again, as he had many times before. With Clint it got so that I rarely felt the pain in the moment. As the beatings happened I would feel nothing but numb and distant, as if somebody else was being beaten and I was just watching. I remember looking up at him through blood-streaked eyes and wondering if life was ever going to be good, if I was ever going to break out of this prison and become a person. Because when a man hits you like that, owns yo
u like that, you start to believe that you’re not a person anymore. I’m not a human being, I would think. I’m just whatever he wants me to be. My self-esteem was so low, I didn’t even like the sound of my own breathing. I detested myself. I was a mouse, and I didn’t want to be a mouse.
It wasn’t bravery that made me stand up and go into the bedroom as Clint watched football on the TV. It was fear. He’d struck me across the eye and something felt loose, like my skin had torn. And I knew if I told Clint he’d just yell at me or throw a bottle, or some other horrible Clint-like thing. I once broke my wrist. He told me to make a fist, staring at me with bloodshot, drunken eyes. When I was able to make a fist after lots of crying and wincing, he said it couldn’t be broken. When I went in the next day, the doctor was horrified by how long I’d left it. He didn’t care if I was in pain; his whole existence was based upon inflicting pain.